


The Duchess and the Wolf

by steelrose



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Arranged Marriage, Desmera Deserves the World, Domestic Violence, F/M, Georgian Period, Jon Snow is a Stark, Loss of Virginity, Miscarriage, Period Typical Attitudes, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, Rhaella Targaryen Deserves Better, Sex, Supernatural Elements, The Plums Will Be Back, Warging, Wolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2020-02-29 05:08:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 34,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18771829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelrose/pseuds/steelrose
Summary: According to her brother, rumours have often circulated about the dark and mysterious nature of the Stark family. Few have dared to voice their fears, but all wonder what lurks around the woods of Winterfell Estate. On the evening of Daenerys’ eighteenth birthday, her betrothal is announced to the Duke of Winterfell. Daenerys soon realises that there may be more to the Starks than what meets the eye. Especially, when she hears the wolves howling at night.





	1. The Most Precious Jewel

**Author's Note:**

> To my fellow Jonerys supported, I know that we’re headed into some uncertain territory but I believe in the characters and we will get through this, no matter what the outcome is. 
> 
> Next story update will be ‘A Golden Age’ and then afterwards ‘The Weirwood Tree’, both of which are almost finished. My schedule is clearing up now, so we should get back into regular updates. 
> 
> Jon is the son of Brandon and Ashara.

**England, 1775.**

**Earl of Dragonstone’s Residence**

 

Music floods her ears, it’s jovial and inviting. The party is already in full swing when she descends the stairs, hand lightly gripping the rail as she keeps her neck elevated - almost as though her mother were holding a ruler beneath her chin. No expense has been spared, every glass has been filled with sparkling amber bubbles and there are gilded platters of fine food being served by the dozen, while a lone pineapple stands proudly on display in the centre of the table. Friends and strangers alike fill her home, and she is expected to smile at them all - they are all here for her. A fact she had been reminded of when her father dropped into her room with a ribbon bound box, and she’d reached inside to pull out a magnificent cream gown which glittered beneath the candlelight.

She had felt trepidation as Missandei weaved pearls into her elevated hairstyle, a sign of her prominence within English society. Daenerys is the only daughter of Rhaella Lefford and Aerys Targaryen and is their most precious jewel - one which her father intends to sell to the highest bidder. Her happiness means very little to her father, not when his own power is at stake. Her father has received several offers for her hand over the years, but he has respectfully declined. He wanted to wait until she came of age to make the announcement of her betrothal. There would be no sweet courtship for her. The arrival of her eighteenth birthday means only one thing, a powerful alliance.

As she reaches the bottom of the staircase, she is greeted by her gallant older brother Rhaegar. He smiles at her, a sight which warms her heart. It feels as though it has been too long since such emotion flickered across his face, for he looked weary from his marriage to the Lannister bitch. Another marriage which was inflicted upon the poor Targaryen children. She can recall the time when her father was pushing her other brother Viserys to marry Margaery Tyrell, but that particular flower was snatched away. He was instead matched with Desmera Redwyne, Margery’s vivacious and materialistic cousin.

“You look beautiful, sister,” Rhaegar murmurs to her, pressing a kiss to the back of her gloved hand. She smiles courteously at him, looping her arm through his own, as they take strides into the ballroom. “A prized pony,” she mutters between gritted teeth.

A chorus of ‘Happy Birthdays’ follow her, and she plasters a polite expression on her face. She is accustomed to the pretences, it’s one of the many burdens of being a Lady in society. But she knows that there are those who have it worse. Daenerys cannot help but flinch as a pompous Lord berates one of the footmen.

“Where is your wife? Does she not wish to join in the celebrations?” she enquires, eyes scanning the crowd for a familiar head of golden curls and a pair of severe eyes. Cersei Lannister was a horrid viper, selfish and unnecessarily cruel. On more than one occasion, she felt certain that the future Countess was taking a jibe at her expense. She was certain that Rhaegar picked up on it too.

Rhaegar merely shrugs out of disinterest and looks vacantly across the room, almost as though he is searching for another. The temporary silence allows her to take in the room, from the way bodies line every inch, to the ominous laughter which tumbles from her father’s crooked lips. He’s patting a man on the shoulder, a man whose face she cannot see. She can only see his hair, raven curls pulled back neatly - likely to keep them from tumbling onto his face.

She sighs and turns to Rhaegar, “Has father given you any indication of which middle-aged bore I must marry?” she asks, eyebrow raised. “I heard rumours of Euron Greyjoy...say it is not so!” she whispers, all the while keeping her features neutral. Her mother would be horrified to see any sign of distress on her face, especially at such a grand occasion. She watches the way that Rhaegar reluctantly shakes his head at her probing.

“Who is that with father?” she asked, rising on her tiptoes to look over the crowd of people at the mysterious stranger. As though the man senses her gaze, he tilts his head and looks directly at her. Despite being on the other side of the room, she can feel how intense his gaze is.

“You do not know? Everyone is talking about the young Duke of Winterfell.” Rhaegar’s expression is unreadable then, which causes her to frown. Her fingers grip his arm tighter, hoping it will prompt him to reveal more. “There have always been sinister rumours about the Starks. When I was a boy, I was told stories of the wolves that hunt in the darkness, with claws like razors and blood-stained fangs. They are giant beasts which howl at the moon and mate like animals.” Rhaegar blushes then, overlapping his right hand over her arm. “Sorry, Daenerys, you should not hear of such things. They are only foolish stories. But I do not believe that our father ever had a kind word to say about Brandon Stark, the young Duke’s father.” A chill claws its way down her spine like freshly melted ice.

“Do you think my marriage shall be as miserable as your own?” Daenerys asks solemnly, blue eyes looking up at her older brother. It isn’t meant to hurt Rhaegar, for he has spoken often of how miserable he is in the marriage and if not for his children, he would question why he was forced to marry Cersei Lannister at all.

“I pray that you will be happy, sweet sister,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her head.

“As do I.”

Rhaegar excuses himself then. She wonders if he’s going to find his longtime friend, Arthur Dayne. When she was younger, she used to imagine what it would be like to be Arthur’s wife. It was a girlhood crush which she concealed well, and as the years passed her infatuation dwindled. Her father burnt away any desire she had for love, instead filling her mind with one word - ‘duty’. Daenerys has always tried to quietly rebel against their expectations, but with a strong-willed father and two watchful brothers, it certainly made it difficult.

She wishes she can go back to her chambers, to talk with Missandei as they always have done. The lines between handmaiden and lady, to pure friendship, had been blurred many years before. She has already demanded that so long as her friend is content with it, the trusted handmaiden should follow her to her marital home. It is a friendship she cannot do without.

She glances over at her proud butler, who in many ways had been a far more kind father to her than her own. Ever since she was a little girl, Daenerys has adored Barristan Selmy. When he notices her looking over at her, he gives her a smile and bows his head in her direction.

Very quickly Daenerys comes to realise that she is to be passed from person to person, for dancing and conversing. Her feet have already started to ache, but she does not let it show. Sometimes she wishes that her life would be more simple, perhaps she could have been a shop girl? Or had a quaint house on a farm, with trees growing outside of her window and a door painted red. But that dream has long faded, her life is not destined for simplicity. She’s a Targaryen, and Targaryens pride themselves on power. It was said that many years ago, the ascension to power had been a bloody one, which started with a fire. The former Duchy of Dragonstone was deposed in a brutal way.  

She is twirled around the dancefloor, from one partner to another they pass her around as though she is a tray of canapes. This particular partner is old and bearded, his ill-fitting tailcoat is stretched over his plump belly which presses against her, as the prominent stench of strong ale invades her senses. His gaze his hungry and his grip too familiar. Daenerys swallows out of discomfort, desperate for the song to finish. She knows of this man, Lord Baratheon is a whoring middle-aged man who is distantly related to her own family - something which the Targaryens actively ignore.

As the melody of the song draws to a close, it’s clear that Robert Baratheon has no intention of letting her go.

“Another dance, my lady?” he asks, pink-cheeked and almost drooling. It’s hard for her to hide the disgust, but she covers it with a polite smile.

“It is not appropriate, Lord Baratheon. But I thank you for the dance,” she responds, trying to pull her hand from his grip without causing a scene.

“No one will mind, Lady Daenerys.”

Irritation rises in her, which does not take a lot. She has often been told that while her heart is gentle and good, there is a temper within her that can rival any storm. Perhaps, it is because she was born during the worst storm of that year. From what her mother has said over the years, all the windows were rattling as she pushed her into the world.

“Unhand me, Lord Baratheon,” she speaks darkly, indigo eyes flaring with fury.

“Mind if I cut in?” a deep voice interrupts. Both Daenerys and Robert turn their heads towards the man, whom she recognises as the Duke of Winterfell. Up close he is even more breathtaking, and she remains completely breathless and unnerved by his gaze.

It’s only when Robert drops her hand that she realises how tight he had been holding it. She stretches out her fingers, before taking the hand of the young duke.

“Lord Baratheon does not like to be told no,” he says to her with a distasteful expression. It’s clear that the man holds no admiration for the Earl of Storms End. “It’s not the way a gentleman should act.”

Daenerys gives him a tense smile then, allowing herself to be pulled into his grasp as they begin to move to the music. She is aware that her father is now watching her, where he wasn’t before. The moment she started dancing with the Duke, her parents' gazes were pulled towards her.

“Believe me, I would have made sure he understood the word no.”

She watches as he nods in silent agreement.

“You were watching me earlier.” The man murmurs, his breath against her ear as they dance. Why does she suddenly feel so hot?

“Was I? I do not even know your name, Sir,” she responds, which is not a lie. Rhaegar only said that he was a Stark and a Duke, not his full name.

He seems conflicted by her response, saddened, but she cannot pinpoint why.

“It’s Jon Stark, Duke of Winterfell. But you’re welcome to call me just Jon.”

“That is hardly appropriate, Lord Stark.” Beneath his beard, she is certain that there is a tug of a smile.

“Your father is going to announce something soon, and he will not give you the courtesy of informing you beforehand,” Jon tells her, his tone almost apologetic. Her brow creases, not because it’s unexpected, quite the contrary. But the fact that Jon knows this, leads her to believe that he may be more than a little involved.

“My betrothal,” she whispers. “I have been preparing for this day for quite some time, Lord Stark.”  Perhaps he expects her to be angry that her father will not inform her of whom she is to marry before he tells the entire group of English gentry.

“My brother tells me that you have only recently become Duke of Winterfell. You are young and likely in need of a wife, I do not need to be an intelligent woman to understand what you’re implying. And believe me, I am an intelligent woman.”  

There is a clinking of glasses, which interrupts their dance. All around them, couples part and turn to face the front of the room, where her father is stood by the fireplace with a glass of champagne in hand. Her mother is stood by his side, a vision in sapphire blue. She receives an encouraging smile from Rhaella, while the woman’s eyes dart between her and Jon. She knows before her father even says the words that it is Jon whom she will marry, and all that circulates in her mind is the rumours Rhaegar had told her an hour before.

“Thank you for coming this evening to celebrate my daughter Daenerys’ eighteen birthday, she is our own precious jewel. Today is a bittersweet day for us, for while we are proud of the woman she is becoming, she will soon leave our home. We are pleased to announce that she will soon be married.” Her father pauses then and smiles at her. Most of the nobility are flitting their gaze from her father and then back over to where she stands.

“We hand over our daughter to Lord Jon Stark.” People clap and cheer, and she feels Jon’s arm linking with her own. In the crowd, there are lords that look disappointed, and ladies too. They were considered the most eligible matches in England, and now they are promised to one another.

Daenerys feels dizzy, but she says nothing. It’s as though she is not really there like there is a disconnect between her mind and her body. She is anchorless.

She is tugged way from Jon by her own mother, who pulls her into a hug. It’s full of affection and love, which is not commonly seen among the nobility. But her mother has never cared much for being stony-faced. “It will be alright, my sweet,” Rhaella whispers in her ear, refusing to let her go. “Lord Stark is honourable and he will treat you well.”

“I hope you are right, mama,” Daenerys responds, squeezing Rhaella while in the embrace, before pulling away. “In any case, we still have a wedding to plan before you are rid of me.” Her mother pats her on the back of the hand.

Jon is talking with others, but she is certain he’s watching her out the corner of his eye. He always seems to be watching her.

It becomes clear very quickly that there are many that wish to congratulate her. In truth, Daenerys would have appreciated her father pulling her to one side beforehand, but as Jon had pointed out, Aerys had no intention of doing that. For her father, this likely feels like a big win. But he’s always been rather bitter about the fact that he is only an Earl and not a Duke. Daenerys is certain that in his own mind, her father believes himself to be king.

She excuses herself from the crowd, which is growing louder from the flowing champagne and apparent need for celebration. Daenerys cannot even bring herself to wish anyone a goodnight, for her feet ache and her head pounds from the news.

Her heels click against the tiled floor as she exits the ornate ballroom, nodding her head towards Barristan Selmy as he wishes her a good night. Her movements are slow, tired and she longs to feel the comfort of her bed, to lie down and absorb the information which she has been fed. Daenerys hopes that if she speaks with Missy, she’ll be able to get her friend to find out more information about the Starks. The maids always hear the most secrets.

“Daenerys.” Her name is called, and she finds herself stiffening. All she wants to do is escape in peace. She turns and offers a lazy smile.

“I just wanted to wish you goodnight,” Jon murmurs, catching her wrist. “I want you to know that I will be yours and you will be mine. You will always have my devotion.”

“We’ve only just met,” she responds. A false laugh slipping from her lips from pure disbelief. Who does he think he is? Has he been taking inspiration from too many romance novels?

“Aye. But I’ve waited a long time for you.”  Her brow creases as he presses a kiss to her gloved wrist. He’d waited a long time for her? How? Whatever could he mean? Her mind is full of questions, but he’s already turning away from her and she’s too tired to argue. But it's something she'll certainly question him on at a later date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this first chapter! Let me know what you think.
> 
> You’ll find out more about Jon as we go along, but it will be as Daenerys learns more of him. He’s a little darker than normal, but not too much.


	2. Strange Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! Thank you all so much for the support on the first chapter, I was really shocked by how many of you loved it. I hope you enjoy the next instalment, let me know what you think! 
> 
> I've mentioned this on my other stories, but I'll reiterate it here. Despite the ending of GOT, and the butchering of my two favourite character arcs, I will continue to love and support Jonerys. I love that the fan fictions are continuing to thrive, and that we have stayed strong. Hopefully, George will give them a more worthy ending and story.

First light peeks through the gap in the drapes, barely illuminating her room. The dark wooded clock on her nightstand, informs her that it’s barely after five in the morning and not at all a suitable time to rise. Her rest has been disrupted ever since her birthday, and she dreams often of a large and ferocious beast, with fur as pale as snow and eyes like crimson blood. It’s a haunting sight, but it doesn’t frighten her as much as she would expect. Daenerys is certain that it’s only because of Rhaegar’s utterance of the rumours that she’s even dreaming of such dark things.

Her door opens, it’s the scullery with fresh logs for the fire. Daenerys pretends that she is still asleep. She’s sure that if the maid were to know that she is awake, it would get back to her mother somehow. Or she’ll be having a conversation at length with Barristan about her welfare.

She lies silently and waits for her bedroom door to once again close. Daenerys folds onto her side and reaches over to tug the drawer of her side table. There are only a few things in there, but she tugs out the bundle of letters. They’ll all from her betrothed, and all have gone unanswered. The words are unimportant, for they document his days and the preparations which are being made for her arrival. He wants her to know him better, that’s the reasoning for his letters. She sees very little of him in them.

On the night of her birthday ball, Jon’s possessive gaze ought to have made her cautious, but it only intrigued her. He’d promised devotion, and she went to bed with those words plaguing her mind.

It’s hard for her to form a true opinion of him from their brief meeting. She only wishes to be happy. Happier than Rhaegar, at least. His marriage has shown her that true misery does exist. Viserys doesn’t seem too miserable with his circumstances and she is certain that if her brother were truly discontented with his wife, they would all know about it.

She thinks of her friend Margaery. Ever since she shunned her brother in favour of Robb Stark, her father had not allowed her to spend time with her. He claimed that her worldly ways and fickle nature would have a negative impact on her. In truth, it’s only his pride which has been negatively impacted. It was a smart choice for the Tyrell’s to make. Viserys is only a second-son and Rhaegar already has an heir. But Robb Stark will be Duke of Riverrun when his grandfather dies, following the untimely death of Edmure Tully. Some say it was Edmure’s pomp and pride which got him arrested. Others say he insulted Baron Frey, one to many times. Walder Frey has since been stripped of all titles and has been parted with his head.

Daenerys sighs and places the bundle of letters back on her nightstand. She had considered reading them again, but she doubts they’ll ease her trepidation. She knows that today will be a challenging day. Her mother hopes to finalise the details of her wedding and so Jon will also arrive at the manor.

She wonders what her marriage will be like. Will she grow to like her husband? Or will he consider her a cold fish? Once, she heard Lord Baratheon talking of his first wife in that same way. Poor woman.

Daenerys bites her lip, thinking once again of Margaery. Her friend has been married for over a year, and now has an infant daughter, Rose. She will know of the Starks’ nature. If only there were a way to speak with her. Perhaps, Missandei can get a message to her. Or Desmera, being Margaery’s cousin could help to arrange a meeting. Although, there does seem to be a little hostility there. No, it will need to be Missandei.

She waits until it’s an acceptable time to call for her maid. It would be unfair of her to demand Missandei come to her room when the woman is in need of her sleep. Daenerys knows she will likely look tired, something which her mother will undoubtedly comment on. The bride has to look pretty at the wedding of the year. Everyone who's anyone will fill the land surrounding her house, following the ceremony at the Church.  Great canopies of pale fabric will cover the heads of the nobility, while thousands of flowers decorate the area. No expense will be spared. Her wedding will be even more lavish than Rhaegar and Cersei’s.

When Missandei knocks on the door and enters, Daenerys is ready to spring into action. But her words turn to dust as her mother also enters, already dressed with an expensive gown draped over her arm.

“We’ve had a new gown made for you, my pearl,” Rhaella coos, showing her the pale blue gown with golden accents, and a white flower applique at the centre of the bodice. She sighs. Another dress to make her look pretty for her luncheon with Jon. Her parents cannot possibly be any more transparent. He’s already agreed to the match, she surely doesn’t need to be paraded around like a pretty little doll which he wants to play with.  

“Another one?” Daenerys questions, her tone clipped. It earns a sharp glare from her mother.

“Yes, dear, another one. You need to look perfect today.” She loves her mother and knows that Rhaella is only doing her father’s bidding, like the dutiful wife. She is certain that Aerys scares her mother. They have been married for so many years, and her mother’s multiple miscarriages have certainly put a strain on their marriage. In the end, neither thought they would have another child after Viserys.

“Is father frightened that Lord Stark may change his mind? My betrothed is given the benefit of choice after all.” Another dig, which earns another glance of silent reprimand. She is almost certain that she catches a small smile on Missandei’s face as she prepares her bath. It’s considered unnecessary and frivolous, but Daenerys likes to bathe every single day. And being her parents' most precious jewel, they have not refused her over the years. All too often she has caught scent of the nobility, who have layered themselves with perfume to disguise the atrocious odours which come from their bodies.

Daenerys slips off her chemise. She is uncaring of her nudity, especially in the presence of her mother and friend. Missandei has stopped flinching every time that Daenerys steps into the hot baths. For anyone else, they would flinch from the scolding heat. But not her, never Daenerys. Her tolerance to the heat is abnormal according to her mother. Those who touch her skin will always find it warm.

She sighs against the back of the tub and looks over at her mother. “Do you need anything else from me mother? Or may I bathe in peace?” Ordinarily, it would not bother her if Rhaella chose to stay or not. But today she really needs to ask something of Missandei.

“You will miss me soon enough, Daenerys. I shall go and check on the children, at least they cannot talk back.” Daenerys feels guilty then. She does not want to cause her mother any pain. No words are spoken after that, as Rhaella places her new gown on the bed and departs the room, in search of babies. The golden-haired twins, with Targaryen eyes: Joanna and Triston.

“I didn't mean to cause her upset,” Dany murmurs, as Missandei combs scented oils into her hair. “But I need to ask something of you which is not for the ears of my mother.” She twists in the bath to face her friend, a cautious look on her face. “I need to meet with Lady Margaery Stark, but my family will not approve. They have not forgiven the Tyrell's for shunning my brother.”

Missandei nods her head, “Whatever you need, my lady.”

Daenerys smiles then. She hopes that living at Winterfell Estate will be a positive experience, not just for her but Missandei too and if meeting with Margaery will help to alleviate some of her concerns, then she must to it.

“The team rooms are quite popular, ask her to meet me there tomorrow afternoon.” She hopes that despite the lack of contact which they had over the past year, their long term friendship is enough to sway Margaery into attending.

When Daenerys’ walks downstairs for breakfast, most are already at the table. Cersei appears to be glaring across the table at her mother, and her frustration is only made more obvious by the way she grips the silverware. There is a tension in the room, which does not abate when she enters.

One of the serving boys places a bowl of porridge in front of her. Daenerys drizzles freshly made honey over her breakfast while casting a look over the table. “Why does everyone look so glum?” she questions, with a raised brow. “This not the stoic welcoming which I have grown accustomed to over the years.”

“It’s nothing, Dany,” Rhaegar mutters, unwilling to share the details of the argument which has transpired across the table. Daenerys sighs, and tries to withhold the pity from her eyes. Her brother doesn’t need that, he certainly won’t welcome it.

“As you’re aware, Lord Stark will be joining us for luncheon in the gardens. If any single one of you embarrasses this family today, there will be consequences,” Aerys voice is deep and threatening. It makes the hairs on her arms stand on end.

“Of course, father,” she responds, while most of the table remains silent.

Daenerys eats her breakfast in silence. There are times when she will argue with her father, for she too has a Targaryen temper. But today is not that day. She knows it will only end in tears, but they will not be her own. She once again looks over at her mother, who hides her tiredness well. Rhaella is naturally excited to plan her daughters’ wedding, but it’s a tiresome job and she’s certain that her father is demanding absolute perfection.

Cersei is first to leave the room, claiming that she has agreed to visit her father. It’s rare that her sister-in-law spends a full day at the manor, there is always something to keep the lioness away.

Slowly, they all filter out, Daenerys included. While walking through the well-dressed halls, she is pulled to the side by Missandei who passes her a piece of crumpled parchment. She unfurls the page and finds a hand-drawn rose.

“Excellent work,” she whispers, before placing the parchment back in Missandei’s hand. As much as she wants to trust Jon, she will not go into their marriage blind. She wants to know as much as she can, and her family will only dare tell her what she wants to hear. It’s conniving of her to meet with Margaery in secret, but she must know.

Daenerys feels restless as the day drags by. It’s not that she is excited to see her betrothed, but more that she would rather get their luncheon over and done with.

There is a commotion when her betrothed finally arrives. It’s not a minute past his expected time, but her parents still seem exasperated and flustered by his arrival. They are quick to greet him before making their way outside.

Jon looks at her, his grey as once again trained on hers. Possessive and all-consuming, it makes her feel strange. But images of a white wolf once again flood her mind, and she has to force the visions from her head. “Lord Stark,” she addresses formally, allowing her hand to be taken into his as he presses a chaste kiss to the back of it. “Lady Daenerys,” he murmurs against her hand, which causes her to shudder.

“You have not returned my letters. I know I’m no poet, but a reply would have been nice.” His voice is gruff as he lets go of her hand.

“We’ve been busy,” she responds, turning to walk down the gravel path. In the distance, there is a section of land which has been decorated with a long table, where her family are already sat waiting. Trays of hot and cold food are lined by the staff, while the serving boys stand to the left like statues.

The skirts of her gown blow in the wind as she reaches the finely clothed table. There are spaces left empty for her and Jon, purposely next to one another, while her father sits to her right and her mother sits to Jon’s left. They are sandwiched in. She receives an encouraging smile from Rhaegar, who is sat directly opposite her.

They begin to engage in conversation, and for a moment she sits back and watches. Her expression is stoic, calculated, as she gazes at Jon who is deep in conversation with her mother. They’re talking about the wedding. Daenerys clenches the napkin on her lap until her father places a hand on hers. Aerys shakes his head, and she releases the pressure on the fabric.

When Jon turns back to her, he has a smile on his face. “Your mother tells me that you are a fine singer.”

“She exaggerates,” Daenerys responds drily. She lifts her spoon to her lips to eat some of the cherry tomatoes and lamb stew, which has started to grow increasingly colder by her lack of attention to eating.

“I doubt it. You shall have to sing for me one day.” He looks at her as though he genuinely cares for her, as though she could ask him to shield her body and he would do so despite the risk to his own body. The intensity is overwhelming and confusing. He barely knows her, how can he look at her like that?

The rest of the luncheon continues on in the same way. Jon continues to speak to her as though he’s utterly devoted to her, although there’s always something suggestive in his tone which makes her shudder. She understands that once they are no longer restricted by society's rules of unmarried women and their suitors, she’ll know exactly what he really wishes to say to her.

“Lady Daenerys, will you take a walk with me?” he asks her, and she turns to her father who nods.

“Of course,” she smiles, taking his hand as it’s offered. “Missandei,” she says to her ladies maid, who nods and begins to follow them for the sake of her reputation.

When they are away from her parents, she feels that she can speak more plainly with him. “You are not what I was expecting. You act strangely around me,” she begins, aware that to some it may cause offence for her to call them strange.

“Strange, how?” he asks, as they walk arm in arm. Daenerys is very aware of the hardness of his arms beneath his jacket, and the smell of him. It’s not intolerable or perfumed, he smells earthy like grass. It’s more manly than the likes of Robert Baratheon.

“You look at me and I’m not certain if you want to swallow me whole, or fall on your sword for me. No one has ever looked at me like that before.”

“I told you, I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment.”  They walk past the entrance of the woods, where the trees grow denser.  “We have wandered too far,” she whispers, aware that they have walked a considerable length where her family are sat. Daenerys ought to feel scared, but she doesn’t. It’s not fear which fogs her mind. “They might get suspicious of your intentions.”

“What do you think your intentions are?” he asks darkly, brushing a stray hair away from her face. Daenerys swallows deeply as her hands grow clammy.

“It’s not proper for me to say.”  Daenerys is aware of how close he is to her, and she finds herself backing up against one of the largest oak trees. It looks as though its a mile high and she feels so small against it.

“May I kiss you?” he asks, his eyes are watching her lips as she breathes heavily. She can feel the bark of the tree against her back and in the distance the laughter of her family at the picnic table. Daenerys knows that Missandei is in sight, watching carefully, protectively.

It’s indecent for her to want him to. But her head is clouded by the sight of him, and she finds herself nodding. He smiles then and leans forward. Daenerys has never been kissed before, she does not know what to expect or what it will feel like.

His lips press against her own and his breath catches. Suddenly, Jon is invading her senses and all she is aware of is him. His beard is rough against her cheek, but his lips are soft and warm against her own. It’s slow at first, but she finds herself relaxing into it. His hand finds purchase against her neck, as his actions grow hungrier. His tongue swipes against her bottom lip and she trembles. The gentleness of the kiss is taken away, as she finds herself gripping his shirt.

She realises that she wants more, that alone is frightening. Daenerys pushes against Jon until he takes a step back from her and their kiss comes to an abrupt end. Her chest is heaving, is it desire she feels? Either way, it’s dangerous. She cannot allow herself to become consumed by Jon Stark, not until she knows the truth. Not until she has spoken with Margaery.

“That…” he begins, straightening his shirt.

“Should not have happened. If anyone had seen us,” she gasps, looking over at Missandei who merely shakes her head. She is certain that her parents would be happy to a certain extent, but she doubts that Rhaegar would share those sentiments. “I don’t even know you.”

“You’re to be my wife. You can convince yourself that you will not enjoy this life with me, but I promise that I shall prove you very wrong.” 


	3. The Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support. I continue to be amazed by the love which this story is being given, I appreciate you all. I am trying to stick to a schedule of posting a new chapter once a week, but there may be a slight gap in the next couple of weeks as I’m going on holiday. I’m also going to be working on another story, in addition to the ones I’m still actively posting. I had hoped to bring in a modern!Jonerys story, but I’ve been inspired to write a WWII Jonerys story, so that’ll be coming first.

 

The spring afternoon air is warm against her skin, the light breeze ruffles the lace trims of her three quarter length sleeves as she makes her way towards the carriage. Behind her, Cersei stands under the arches to the entrance of Dragonstone, arms crossed stubbornly over her chest with a severe expression on her face - which is rarely broken by a smile. It is because of her monstrous sister in law that she is going to arrive late for her tea with Margaery. She detests tardiness and will now have to offer her excuses to her friend, whom she has begged to meet on short notice.

Her encounter with Jon the day before has left her feeling confused and breathless. She doesn't know why he has such an effect on her. More infuriatingly, he seems to know that he’s having an effect on her. Daenerys has never considered herself to be the type of girl capable of swooning and blushing, but her rose-tinted cheeks and swollen lips suggest otherwise. Even when she had her girlhood crush on Arthur, she didn’t blush like a foolish girl incapable of controlling her emotions. 

When they returned to the picnic table under the canopy after their walk, Daenerys was certain that her mother and father knew exactly what had happened with Jon, especially by the wolfish expression on her betrothed’ face. Meanwhile, she looked as though she were a deer, who had come face to face with a hunter.

She almost wants to flee from her uncertain feelings, but Targaryens do not hide when things get tough.

Daenerys climbs into the carriage, eager to be on her way. She’s anxious to know what Margaery will tell her of the Starks since she has undoubtedly seen a lot of them. Neither Robb, Margaery or their newborn daughter Rose have taken up residence in Riverrun yet, but it’s only a matter of time.

For a split-second, Daenerys wonders if Margaery would inform Jon of their arranged meeting, but she trusts Margaery enough for that not to be the case. She just hopes that her trust is not misplaced. Unlike some of her friendships, she can remember the day that Margaery Tyrell came into her life. She had been attending her first ball and was a little over eight years old. Some of the ladies just a little older than her were talking about how strange she looked, with her almost-silver hair and near violet eyes. Margaery had sauntered over, confident and commanding, and declared that jealousy was the ugliest colour. They were friends from that moment on.

“Please have the answers, Margaery,” she whispers to herself in the carriage, staring down at her trembling hands.

They will soon be in May, and her marriage will arrive. She needs to know what to expect beyond her mother’s vague explanations and her father’s push for family honour and duty. He’s so forceful with the phrase that she’s certain there must be a little Tully in his blood.

The journey into the city does not take too long. The dusty roads are lined with market stalls. Imported fabrics, food from the new world and strange trinkets are just some of the items which the merchants try to sell, but it’s the ribbons which often catch a lady’s attention.

Suspicious gazes follow the poor, their cloth is dirty and there is barely any meat to their bodies, they’re the most likely to try and steal the goods. Most end up with a missing hand or a nailed ear. The practice is completely barbaric and she finds it nauseating when anyone turns up their nose at the poor. It’s not their fault they were born with nothing.

She knows that Margaery is a patron to several orphanages, and while she has a degree of sympathy for them, it’s also for her own self-image. People love her and those on the land of Riverrun will benefit when she is a duchess. It has lacked a feminine touch since Lady Minisa, Lord Hoster’s wife died.

As she steps out of the carriage and onto the path, she notices that more buildings have popped up in the town to cater to the growing interest in shopping. Daenerys passes by the silversmiths but stops outside a shop window. On display are four hats, each one more intricate and flamboyant than the last - the kind that Desmera will certainly buy. Next door is the print shop, and if Dany wasn’t already late, she would certainly take a closer look.

She walks down the street until she arrives at her desired destination. The tea room is painted in pale blue, and everywhere she looks there are finely printed doilies and cloths which make the place look all the more delicate.

A slender arm raises to wave at her ever so gently. Margaery's movements are always so precise and fluid, as though they are mere ripples in a giant body of water.

It has not been long since the birth of Rose, but Margaery looks incredible. Her light brown hair has been pinned elegantly atop her head, and she’s dressed her body into a rich pale turquoise gown. She’s glowing, and her smile is as wide and beautiful as ever.

“Daenerys, sweet girl, it’s so good to see you!” Margaery proclaims rising to greet her with familiarity. The woman places her hands on either side of her arms and presses a kiss to her cheek. Her friend has chosen a table in the corner, likely where she can watch everyone else. She knows that Mar will have insisted on a particular seat, rather than being told where to sit.

“I’m sorry for not keeping in touch. My father is still...well, you know,” Daenerys smiles tensely. There’s a pot of Imperial Tea already on the table, so she grasps the porcelain and pours the pale green liquid into her dainty teacup.

“I do not suppose that it’s been made easier by my replacement, her nature has always been challenging.” Poor Desmera, always overlooked. The girl with strawberry toned strands is beautiful and captivating in her own way, but Margaery’s light has always been too bright for anyone to outshine her.

“Viserys does not help the situation,” Daenerys adds, lifting the teacup up to her lips. The taste and smell are delicate, but also satisfying.

“Yes, but you did not come to talk to me of your brother or my cousin.” Margaery gives her a smirk then and folds a piece of cloth over her lap as she reaches for one of the lemon cakes. “You asked to know about my marriage, but what you really want to know is what kind of a man Jon Stark is.”

“He’s asked about you for a while, but I’ve never told him much. His appetite has always been wetted by the mere thought of you,” Margaery reveals, breaking apart her cake with a tiny fork. The sugar sparkles on the top as she stabs a piece and pops it into her mouth. “Robb was similar in his pursuit of me. It’s said that the Starks need only lay their eyes on their beloved once and recognise the second half of their heart. It’s all very romantic, but I do prefer to be more realistic than that, such sentiments are better left with Sansa Stark.”

“I do not understand. Why are there so many mysteries surrounding the Starks? I don’t think even the King’s family have been so elusive,” Daenerys huffs and looks up at Margaery, her eyes pleading for more information.

“Some women are unfortunate in their marriages. They are forced to be with men that either care too little about them to show any attention, or they are given the wrong kind of attention that would have them preferring they were left alone - it’s often the price of arranged marriage. No one knows they’re marrying a monster until it climbs into their bed and bares its teeth.” Margaery stretches her hand over the table and places it against her own. Her thumb brushes against the side of her hand. “I doubt you’ll be unhappy. The Starks are almost like a pack in how they stick together, they’re protective of their own and possessive over what they love. Some might find it daunting or intimidating to encounter someone as all-consuming as that, but they’re loyal to the core, and will worship the ground you walk on.”

“Are you happy?” Daenerys’ brow furrows as she asks Margaery the only question which is bouncing around her mind, refusing to relent in its desire to be released. Her friend has always been charismatic but calculated, and never a fool in love. She’s certainly never favoured being controlled by any man, so hearing her speak of possession with such fervour is a little jarring.

“Simply put, yes.” Margaery swipes her tongue over his lips and sighs. “You’ll understand soon enough and while you could not attend my wedding, I shall be at yours. Even your father can’t keep me away, although I would like to see him try.”  

“Please, tell him that to his face. I shall delight in watching him squirm for he has no place to argue, unless he wishes to upset my betrothed,” Daenerys laughs.

She takes another sip of tea, as she tries to digest Margaery’s words. It’s comforting to know that her friend will be there supporting her. Margaery has said nothing which has frightened her. What is more shocking is Margaery’s passionate attitude to her marriage, for she has always been the one to speak of marriage as a transaction of power.

“Tell me about Rose,” Daenerys encourages, trying to imagine what Margaery’s baby looks like.

“She is the envy of everyone,” Margaery's begins. Daenerys watches as the woman’s smile grows bigger, beaming with pride.

When she arrives back at the manor, Viserys is waiting. The middle Targaryen child is the most unpredictable and is largely considered the black sheep on the family. In the prime of his youth, her brother has been known to gamble away large chunks of his inheritance, pay too many visits to a harlot named Doreah only to wake up still drunk with lighter pockets, and disrupt the entire household when he tries to climb into bed with Desmera, smelling of his nightlong activities and ends up having an argument. But in spite of all those things, Daenerys loves him, she loves the vain fool.

“Why are you skulking about the place?” she enquires, raising a brow as he pushes himself away from the marble pillar which he’d been lazily leaning against on a few moments prior. He slings a lanky arm over her shoulder, pulling her close, “Are you drunk?” Daenerys huffs, shrugging off his arm.

“You wound me, sweet sister,” he nudges her side, as they walk down the corridor. “I’m in need of small favour,” he begins, which forces her to halt her movements. She stills and turns, a pointed expression marking her face.

“What is it that you want, Viserys?” she asks with a sigh, exasperated by him.

Her brother gets his cunning nature from their father, but he’s more reckless with it than Aerys. He gives her a sly smile and places both of his hands on her shoulders. She looks up at him expectantly, her patience growing thin. “There was a card game,” he begins.

“-Oh, Viserys!” she exclaims interrupting him. Her indigo eyes roll at him, her arms coming to cross over her chest out of frustration. “What did you gamble away this time? Father’s protection can only stretch so far.” She watches as her brother pauses, his expression akin to that of a child that knows it’s done a bad thing.

Daenerys taps her foot on the ground, her patience for her brother’s game wearing thin.

“Loras Tyrell will be sending someone to collect your silver tomorrow,” Viserys announces, and Daenerys recoils as though she has been slapped. Anger flares in her veins and she pushes him away from her.

“You bloody fool! Loras Tyrell is not having my silver since it was not yours to gamble away. Give him your own horse if you must, but leave mine out of it!”  

Daenerys’ horse is a beautiful, wilful and prized mare. Her coat is rare and has thus garnered the attention of others over the years, ever since she was gifted to Dany as a filly.

“Be reasonable, sweet sister…” Viserys argues back, which only provokes her more.

“Reasonable? Reasonable! Viserys, I…”

“What in heaven's name are you two arguing about? Daenerys, ladies do not raise their voices! Viserys, why have you provoked your sister’s ire?” her father asks, his face creased with frustration as he stalks over to the two of them, clearly annoyed at their behaviour.

“Daenerys is just being sensitive, father.”

Her fingers clench at her sides. It’s easy to diminish her feelings or justification if the sensitive feelings of her sex are introduced.

“I doubt that very much,” her father murmurs, turning towards her. Unfortunately for Viserys, while their father would delight in her being more silent, she is his most precious jewel and favourite child.

“What has your brother done this time?” He’s softer when he speaks to her, his sharp features almost kind. Most fear her father and they are right to do so, but he is different with her, protective and proud. His adoration for her seems to have increased tenfold since the announcement of her betrothal to Lord Jon. She tries not to think too hard on how much value is placed on her getting married.

“He claims to have lost a bet again Loras Tyrell. The prize is my silver,” she responds sharply, her indigo eyes bearing down on her older brother.

“That is certainly not happening. Leave us be, Daenerys. I need to have a conversation with your brother about family honour and it is not for your ears.”

Reluctantly, Daenerys turns away from her father and brother, containing a huff as she carries on down the corridor towards the staircase.

That night, instead of the white wolf with scarlet eyes, she dreams only of Jon. She imagines his breath on her neck, the feel of his body pushing her against the tree and the dizzying kiss which leaves her speechless. _Loyal, possessive, all-consuming,_  words which Margaery had spoken and she knows to be true, play around in her mind as she imagines what it’s like to be completely consumed by Jon Stark. She wants to know his secrets, to uncover the meaning behind his whispered words and darkened gaze.

“Mine,” he whispers in her ear, as he continues to invade her dreams.

“Yours.”


	4. Greek Street

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for the support and love! I cannot believe how many of you are reading, kudos'ing, subscribing etc. It's incredible and I love you all.

**Dragonstone Manor**

**May 1775**

 

Like so many nights before, he comes to her in her dreams. In the mornings she wonders if it’s her imagination or Jon truly trying to claim her soul piece by piece.

His eyes lock onto hers, face inches away as she writhes beneath him. Coarse hands explore her body, strumming her like an instrument, trying to make her sing. 

When she wakes, she’s always on the edge, body hot and wet. Her hands take their own exploration until she’s moaning in her pillow and wondering if she’s no better than the harlots on Greek Street.

Daenerys gasps and lays her hands over her chest, feeling the slam of her heart beating erratically. Her night shift is stuck to all the curves of her body, and she feels warm and limbless. 

After a few minutes, she climbs out of bed and walks over to the windows. She pulls back the pale blue damask drapes, allowing the moonlight to filter into her bedroom. It takes more than a little force to open her window, but she gets the thing dislodged enough for a breeze to carry through the room. 

Daenerys sighs and climbs back onto her bed, lying on top of the sheets as she thinks about the day ahead. When her wedding is all over, she hopes her mother can take some time for herself. Rhaella Targaryen has busied herself to the point of exhaustion, to make sure her daughter's wedding will be talked about for the next decade. No expense has been spared, thousands upon thousands of gardenias will decorate the area, until all that can be seen is a field of white. Daenerys’ gown is a pure masterpiece, with pale blue and ivory fabrics imported from France, and the finest bodice work she has ever seen, decorated with intricate beading and finished with a gardenia appliqué. She will look like a pretty little dream, just as her father wishes. The envy throughout all of England. 

Unexpectedly, The door clicks open. Daenerys bolts upright and turns her body towards the door with alarm. It’s still nighttime and she has to wonder who on earth would enter her rooms at such an ungodly hour. It’s Cersei.

“What do you want?” Daenerys prods with a clipped tone. They’ve never been close and certainly haven’t tried to have any form of friendship.

Cersei saunters in, golden hair loose with a muted red robe wrapped around her body. Her sister in law is beautiful, but her insides are rotten and ugly. Rhaegar is miserable because of this woman, so Daenerys will never like her. She doesn’t think that Rhaegar will ever forgive their father for making him marry a Lannister. The only positives are Joanna and Triston, that is it. 

“I wanted to talk to you before your wedding,” Cersei smirks, sitting on the end of her bed with one leg folded over the other. There is an air of regality about Cersei, and she certainly acts as though she is the most important person in the room. 

“About what?” Daenerys rises from her bed to grab the lilac robe which has been thrown over a chair in the corner of her room. She tugs it around her body and ties it with a bow. 

“Nothing too bad, I assure you. Robert Baratheon likes to brag to his circle of friends about his many whores he’s enjoyed recently and my brother is always privy to the conversations. He told me that Lord Stark was spotted in a whore house giving a pregnant woman a purse full of coins.” Blood pounds in her ears and she looks venomously at Cersei. “For what reason would Lord Stark be paying off a pregnant whore?” 

Daenerys heart leaps into her throat. Shock, hurt, denial. 

“And out of the goodness of your heart, you decided to tell me the night before my wedding?” Daenerys snaps, eyes blurring with tears as she fights the nauseous feeling in the pit of her stomach. “You’re a hateful woman,” she murmurs shaking her head, indigo eyes shining with hurt and anger.

“Get out, Cersei. It’s late and I need my rest.” Cersei smiles and rises from the bed, patting her on the leg and then slithering away like the snake that she is. 

Once the door closes, Daenerys yanks her pillow from the bed and screams into it. If it were any other man, she would not care. But it’s not, it’s Jon and he said he was different.

Daenerys has always understood that marriage is about duty, not love. But everyone has told her how loyal Jon will be to her, that he’s been waiting for her. She doesn’t understand. The pieces of the puzzle just don’t fit right. 

After that, there’s no hope of her getting back to sleep. She lies there, hoping that Cersei is either wrong or lying. Why should she believe the words of a woman who makes her brother so miserable?

When Missandei arrives in the morning, bright and beaming, Daenerys struggles to smile. She hates that Cersei has managed to dampen her mood. This is supposed to her day and her mother has worked so hard to make it beautiful. 

She brushes away an angry tear, ignoring Missandei’s look of concern. 

“Your father says that you can have breakfast in your rooms today, you're not expected to join them downstairs,” Missandei tells her.

Daenerys sits in front of the vanity and assesses the damage, “I shall need elderflower water and tea for my eyes,” Daenerys instructs Missandei, tracing the faint dark circles which show she’s had a restless night. 

She leans forward to rest her elbow on the table, her fingers against her temples.

“You do not seem like yourself, my lady,” Missandei murmurs, walking over to where she is sat. Daenerys looks up then with teary eyes, her stomach clenching. 

“What if I’ve made a mistake? I feel like I’ve opened my heart to the possibility that this marriage will not just be purely for politics. What if my heart is torn from my chest until there is nothing left and I’m a shell of myself?” Daenerys murmurs, wringing her hands together. “No. I’m a Targaryen and I am stronger than that.” Her response is abrupt as she straightens herself. It’s her day and no one is going to ruin it, not Jon, a random harlot and definitely not Cersei Lannister. 

“You are the strongest person I know.” Missandei squeezes her shoulder and leaves the room.

Her fingers drift over the pots of makeup and vials of floral perfumes, all are designed to make her look beautiful and glowing. The perfect virginal bride.

She reclines back against the chair and groans. She will soon be the Duchess of Winterfell, and her duty will take over her life. Daenerys hopes that she can do right the people who live on the land and in the town, all those bound to her husband’s favour. 

Daenerys was taught how to run a household when she was a little girl, so the prospect does not daunt her. 

When Missandei returns, she’s holding a glass pot of elderflower water and a cup of soaked tea bags. Behind her, another maid follows with a tray of food for breakfast. There is a pot of chocolate coffee, fruits, a bread bowl with egg and cheese, and meats. She knows that she won’t eat half of it, she doesn’t have a big appetite after Cersei’s jarring news. 

The tray is placed in front of her, so she pops a berry into her mouth under Missandei’s watchful gaze. Her ladies’ maid has always had the freedom to speak openly with her and is not above scolding her if she doesn’t eat. 

“How is everything looking downstairs?” Daenerys asks, moving away from the vanity to look out of the tall windows. She can only partially see the gardens from where her bedroom is positioned, but she can see that the day is clear and bright. At least it will not rain. 

“It’s beautiful, my lady. Lady Targaryen has done a spectacular job, she should be very proud.” Daenerys smiles softly in response, grateful for her mother’s efforts. She hopes that her father shows some gratitude, but it’s probably fruitless to hope. 

Daenerys moves back over to the vanity table and takes a sip of the chocolate coffee. It’s sweet and rich on her tongue, just what she needs to start off the day. 

Delicate cloths are drenched in the elderflower water and rung out, before she begins to sweep it over her pale features, to refresh and cleanse her skin, while Missandei prepares her bath. Lavender and lemon oils are poured into the tub, while cloth lines the edges so she can rest her head. 

She continues to pick at her breakfast, eating the morsels to ease Missandei’s concerned looks. The nobility do not do anything by halves, so she knows that there will be enough food to feed five thousand mouths. She has already asked that the leftovers be given to the poor, just as Margaery had supposedly done at her own wedding. Her father was not pleased by her suggestion saying that they are only feeding the problem, but she would not hear of it. Why should innocents have to suffer more? 

When she steps into the bath, she closes her eyes and lies back, so that the tea bags can be laid over her eyes to soothe the skin. 

Her hands rest on either side of the tub and she feels relaxed for the first time in hours, after Cersei’s ill-timed revelation. 

She hears the bedroom door open, but she doesn’t shift an inch. Missandei greets her mother and Desmera, alerting her to the current visitors.

“Mother, Desmera,” she says calmly, her eyes are still closed as the lavender oil is combed through her strands meticulously. 

Her other sister in law Desmera is self-indulgent and a little too blunt at times, but they get along well enough. Both of them detest Cersei, so that’s enough for them to bond over. She always sees the longing in Desmera’s eyes for a baby wherever the twins are around, but Viserys spends more time in the beds of harlots than he does with his own wife. She doesn’t understand why Desmera is beautiful and vivacious, she has all the makings of a woman capable of holding her brothers wandering attention. 

”How are you feeling today, my darling, ” Rhaella pries gently. She wonders how her mother feels. Is the relieved that the day is finally here? Is she saddened that her last child, her little girl, is getting married? Is she worried that her father will not think the effort she has put in is enough? Her mother always asks how others are, but people rarely ask her. Rhaella Targaryen has always been and will always be a creature of duty. 

“I am well, mama,” Daenerys responds, reverting back to her childhood name for her mother. She will smile for her mother today, to ease any worries or cause for concern. 

Preparations for the wedding consume most of the morning. She’s pleased that Cersei does not try to enter her rooms again, for she would certainly feel a rise of agitation. 

When she’s fitted into her gown, it begins to feel all too real. Daenerys has thought of the politics of her marriage, and may perhaps even the passion, but thinking of it and it actually becoming a reality are two different things entirely. 

Her breathing becomes more rapid, and she suddenly begins to feel too hot. 

Daenerys slams her eyes shut, presses a hand to her stomach and breathes out in deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. 

When she was a little girl, Daenerys felt an overwhelming sense of stress and anxiety, when she attended a party in her own home, which was full of strangers. It was Barristan, who told her to close her eyes and breathe out deeply until it didn’t feel scary anymore. 

She opens her eyes and glances at her reflection in the long mirror. Missandei is pinning white gardenia’s into her updo, while another maid is fluffing out her skirts. In the corner of the room, her mother stands dressed in a gown of navy, with a hand pressed to her lips and eyes full of awe. The older Targaryen woman leaves, to make her way to the church. 

Only her father is left behind, stood at the bottom of the grand staircase waiting for her. If Aerys had his way, he’d be wearing red and black. But instead, he wears a complementary shade of blue to match her mother’s gown. Daenerys has always favoured blues, especially the shade which has been chosen for her wedding gown. Her mother has tried to match it to her own taste, something which has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. 

Her fingers slide across the bannister, as she walks down the staircase. Out the corner of her eye, she can see Barristan stood by the main door beaming up at her. 

“Father,” she says as she reaches him. He kisses her hand and then guides her out of the manor. The carriage ride to the church is short, but those who live in the town near Dragonstone will stop to watch her pass through. Things are rarely exciting or lavish for them, so they halt their days to get a glimpse at how others live. 

The people cheer and wave as they ride through the town, they’ve always loved Daenerys. She genuinely cares about them and has given time where others haven’t. Her smile towards them is genuine, pure. 

“No one is more proud than me today, Daenerys,” her father murmurs when they arrive outside the church. She nods at him in response, and takes his hand, grateful for the assistance in stepping down from the carriage. The skirts of her gown are big, and her corset is constricting to her movements. 

It happens in a blur then. The music starts and suddenly she’s walking down the aisle with her father, her steps measured and slow, as she walks past hundreds of faces. Jon stands at the end, his dark hair pulled back in a knot, and he’s dressed in such a deep shade of blue that it’s almost black. His appearance is not as elaborate as his station would permit, but nothing about Jon seems straightforward. 

Her father passes her hand over to Jon, and she turns to face her soon-to-be husband. There’s awe in his eyes, and he doesn’t hide it. Those stormy grey irises seem to drink in the sight of her, hungry and ready to be sated. He’s told her that he’s been waiting a long time for her. Soon enough, she will be his. 

Vows are spoken, and promises are made before the archbishop, and members of the nobility. 

“Jon, will thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holiest state of matrimony? Will thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?” 

“I will,”  he tells her, speaking to her in a softened tone, as one would speak to a lover.

“Daenerys, will thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holiest state of matrimony? Will thou obey and serve him, love honour and keep him, in sickness and in health, so long as you both shall live?”

She feels a hundred eyes on her, burning her as she pauses to take a breath. She does not a look away from Jon, and she sees a flash of something unreadable in his gaze, perhaps uncertainty. 

“I will,” Daenerys responds. She knows that her father is likely clenching her mother’s hand nervously, hoping that his dutiful daughter will not defy him. 

Jon takes the ring and slips it onto her finger, “With this ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship, with all of my worldly goods, I thee endow. In the name of the Father, the Son and of the Holy Ghost.” 

They are declared husband and wife, which causes a round of cheers and clapping to fill the church, as Jon leans forward to capture her lips with his own. Unlike their first kiss in the woods, it’s gentle and chaste, much more appropriate for the stiff-lipped nobility watching them. 

They walk out of the church, and flower petals are thrown above them showering them in gardenias. Daenerys keeps on smiling, she smiles for her mother, and for all the things she hopes for. 

The sun shines down upon them as they take the carriage back to Dragonstone, where the wedding breakfast will begin. Jon places his hand on her thigh, which causes her to gasp. “You look incredible,” he whispers against her ear. She tries to ignore the shiver which is sent down her spine and looks out of the open-top carriage. “My mother’s efforts have not been for nought then.” 

Daenerys knows that she will not be able to enjoy the rest of the day, not until she’s settled the storm in her mind. 

“I’m going to ask you something and I don’t know you well enough to believe you’ll tell me the truth, but I’m going to ask it anyway.” Daenerys looks at him, her gaze focused and hands steady. This will determine how much trust she can have in their marriage. If he’s gotten a woman pregnant before their marriage, there is little that she can do about it other than being disappointed. But now, if he lies to her, that she won’t forgive.

“Alright,” Jon murmurs, taking her hand in his. She has to fight the urge to snatch it away. 

“Did you go to a brothel on Greek Street this past week?” Daenerys asks, staring at him fiercely. “Yes.” 

She recoils away slightly, and rubs her lips together, “During your visit, did you pay anyone for their service?” The last word comes out a little more bitter than she had intended. 

“Just me cleaning up a friend’s mess. Lord Samwell is in love with a harlot, and his father, Baron Tarly,  has cut him off out of shame and refuses to give any money to the woman who is carrying Sam’s child.” Jon pulls her closer, his gaze possessive, she meets his eyes and shudders. “I’ll never betray you. I am yours and you are mine.” His hands curl around the back of her neck, thumb stroking the skin. She goes to open her mouth, but he gives her a dark look and presses a kiss to her lips, murmuring “always” against her mouth. 

“I wish I could believe you,” she sighs, lowering her eyes. He’s more gentle then, brushing his fingers down the side of her face in a soothing manner. 

“You will, Dany.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this update, and I'll see you very soon with the next one. 
> 
> Also, I did copy the vows off of Victoria, because they're in keeping with the time period. 
> 
> Next chapter is a continuation of the wedding and will be titled as such ;)


	5. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the love! I know I keep saying it, but it shocks me how many of you are enjoying this story. I'm sorry it's been a little bit longer than normal between updates, but I've been on holiday so forgive me...and this is also the longest chapter. Please let me know what you think and I'll see you next week with another update.
> 
> For those that read 'The Weirwood Tree', an update is coming in the next few days. Also, I'll be releasing my new modern!Jonerys fic this coming weekend.

****When they arrive back at the manor, the spring sun is rising high above them brightening the gardens with a large band of light. Jon steps out of the carriage and offers his hand to her. It’s just as coarse as she imagines. She wonders what the Duke does which makes his hands rough. It’s something she’ll likely to discover along the way.

Daenerys steps out of the carriage and glances up at Dragonstone. For eighteen years, the manor has been her home, but she’s already spent her last night in her bedroom. When dusk arrives, she will be in a carriage on her way to Winterfell. It’s said that her husband has the most land in the kingdom, second only to King George himself.

It’s strange to her that she can now refer to Jon as her husband, both publicly and in her own mind. He takes her hand and squeezes her gently as they walk through the manor doors. “My lady,” Barristan greets her softly, his eyes full of pride and sadness as she smiles back at him. She will miss him dearly.

Gardenias decorate every inch of the foyer, giving it an ethereal feeling which is akin to a Midsummer Night's Dream. She winks at Joanna and Triston, who are sitting at the top of the staircase with their nanny, looking at her brightly. Weddings are no place for children. Her niece and nephew are little darlings, and she is grateful that Cersei’s vile nature has not influenced them yet.

Daenerys removes her hand from Jon’s, which causes him to frown. She moves away from him and climbs the staircase until she can sit a few steps below the children, which is not easily done in a corset. “What are you doing, little darlings?” she asks, raising her brow at them. Triston holds out his tiny hand, so she presses a kiss to the back of it. “Are you behaving for Nanny?”

Joanna sits up a little straighter, pushes out her chest proudly and nods, “Yes, auntie,” she beams. Of the two, Joanna is braver and outgoing, while Triston is quieter and reserved. Ordinarily, she would pull him into her lap to talk with him, but it seems foolish to do so on the stairs.

“Behave for Nanny and I’ll make sure you get some of the cake later, just don’t tell your mama,” Daenerys winks, and then rises from her spot.

She glances down the stairs and Jon is stood staring up at the three of them. Perhaps he’s imagining her with their own children, maybe he loathes the thought of them. She can’t know for sure.

It’s not long before the wedding guests begin to filter into the gardens, fawning at the elaborate decoration which floods the land. Great canopies of pale fabric will shield the heads of the nobility from the heat, while they dance and laugh and scheme

She enters the gardens with a smile and it’s not all false. Jon’s hand rests reassuringly against her back, and she’s surprised by how calming she finds the action. He should not have that effect on her yet and yet he does. Daenerys looks up at him, and then turns away quickly. She knows that she must be stronger.

They tell her to enjoy the day, to capture everything in her mind, but it still turns into a blur around her and she feels as though it’s all out of control. Laugher, fine food and dancing consume the day, Margaery embraces her brightly and introduces her to Leonette, who is betrothed to Mar’s older brother Garlan.

So many people wish her well, she’s almost tired of hearing it. It’s supposed to be her day, but it’s more a flamboyant affair designed to show the wealth of her own family.

As splits apart a cream cake with her fork, her father moves to take the vacant space beside her. Her husband has been pulled away into a corner with some of the men, and she isn’t the least bit curious about the conversation he’s currently having. “Are you well, my pearl?” her father asks, brushing the end of her nose. When she was a little girl, she would sit on his lap and he’d tell her stories and brush the end of her nose. Viserys would sit in a chair nearby and sulk, not quite a man nor a boy at that age.

“It’s beautiful, father. Mother has done the impossible,” Daenerys responds, eager to remind her father of her mother’s efforts. He lets out a grunt of acknowledgement and lays his hand on top of hers. “You shall leave me soon, the last of my children. Your two brothers take comfort in my home, and their odious wives too, but my favourite will leave me. The world can be so unkind…” Her father’s mind seems to have wandered, and she decides to continue eating her cake, listening as he talks about how sad he is that she’s leaving. Only she can make Aerys Targaryen cry, her mother has always said so.

When the time comes for her to leave, he brushes aside a tear. Daenerys hugs him close and then climbs into the awaiting carriage. Most of the Starks will stay at Dragonstone for the evening, but she will travel to her new home to spend her wedding night there. Jon insisted.

As they arrive upon the grounds of Winterfell, Daenerys is shocked by the size of the manor, which is much larger than Dragonstone, but there’s something dark and unsettling about it, much like her husband. The woods which border the right side of the manor stretch on as far as the eye can see. It would be very easy to get lost.

There are two statues of wolves which flank either side of the main door, a peculiar design choice. Most have lions since it's an animal most revered by the royal family.

The manor itself it’s largely made up of grey old stones, giving the appearance that it’s been around for hundreds of years and will continue to exist for hundreds more. She realises that if all goes well, it will be her child that one day holds lordship over the lands.

Daenerys steps down from the carriage and is greeted by the staff, who all stand outside neatly. An older gentleman steps forward, bowing before her, “Your ladyship, I am Davos the butler of this household. If it pleases you, we will leave the introductions with the rest of the staff until tomorrow. We’re told that you’ll be bringing your own ladies maids?”

Daenerys notices that despite the fluidity of his speech, his tone is a little less refined than the other butlers she’s met over the years, not that it matters. “Pleasure to meet you, Davos. My lady's maid Missandei is joining us, but I would still like to employ another lady’s maid.”

“Very good, my lady. I will make all the necessary enquiries and come back to you with a list of suitable options,” Davos tells her. She watches as his eyes flicker up and he suddenly bows once again, “My Lord.”  

Daenerys turns and notices that Jon has appeared behind her. His hand finds the small of her back, and she finds herself pulled closer to him. “Any trouble today, Davos?” Jon questions, which rumples her brow out of curiosity. The butler gives Jon a short nod, which invokes a sigh from her husband. He presses a kiss to the side of her cheek and pulls away from her, his eyes stormy.

“Mrs Crook will show you to our rooms, sweetheart. I shall be along in a moment.”

The hour is late, so she does feel a little pity for those who have had to line up outside when they would ordinarily be retiring for bed. But then, this is hardly an ordinary day.

Mrs Crook is a tall well-dressed woman with brown hair speckled with silver and kind hazel eyes. She is the housekeeper of Winterfell, and there is a distinctive jingle as she walks, from the large iron ring of keys she carries. Daenerys knows that she will spend a lot of time with the woman, planning events and organising the household. She looks forward to the task.

As they walk side by side, Daenerys feels almost like a little girl from the difference in height, “How long have you worked here, Mrs Crook?” she asks, as they walk through the foyer. Despite the elaborate elegance of the era, there is more of a muted grandiose to the interior. It’s flooded with wealth, with the fine ornaments and statues, but the colours are more earthy than her own home which is littered with vibrant reds and oranges, which bring Dragonstone to life.

She decides that Winterfell needs a woman’s touch and she knows that the grey drapes will be switched out for the pale blue which matches her wedding gown, for a start. If this is to be her home, she will make sure that it’s too her liking.

“For fifteen years, my lady.” They walk up the grand staircase, which curves around and meets in the centre at the top, with the end of the other staircase, which is mirrored to the one she’s just climbed.

Once they reach her bedroom, Daenerys is surprised to find that there are some minor personal items of Jon’s in the room. It is known that most members of the nobility sleep apart unless the husband decides to visit bed in the hope of comfort or children. She wonders if her husband has other ideas about their marital arrangement.

Her fingers touch the pale blue damask bedding, which has been folded back to reveal stark white sheets. She stares at them for a moment, before turning back to Mrs Crook. “Will you send up Missandei so that I can undress?” she asks, sitting on the end of the bed, the thick french blue skirts fanning around her.

The housekeeper nods and leaves her alone in the room. Daenerys rises from the bed and begins to take a look around. It’s large and strangely styled in a way with she likes. She wonders if her mother has been informing Jon of what she would like.

Her fingers drift over the book on Jon’s nightstand, which she picks up curiously and turns over. It's not from an author she recognises. Along with the nightstand are several pairs cufflinks and a pad of paper with the wolf’s head printed on it. Her own side table has an elegant dish with an intricate Parisian design, clearly for the purpose of her dropping her jewels there. There is also a vial of her favourite lavender oil. It’s likely that Missandei has put that there, since her maid arrived several hours before she did, with all of her belongings.

When the door clicks, she sees Missandei holding a light garment in her arms - obviously French in its sheer nature. “Mother’s idea? Daenerys muses, rolling her eyes lightheartedly. Her grandmother was French, hence the affinity for Parisian things.

“Lady Targaryen felt it was most appropriate for your wedding night. The manor is warm, so I do not think you shall suffer a chill in wearing it.”

The process to undress her takes almost as long as it had for her to prepare for her day. Her gown comes off first, then her corset. One by one pieces are removed until she’s left nude. Missandei helps slip the night down over her head, and Daenerys almost gaps from how immodest it is. Yet each cuff is fastener with a French blue blow, and it’s tied to together at the front with another bow. She feels like she is being wrapped up like a gift for her husband and it makes her stomach clench.

To keep the chill from her bones while she waits for Jon, she pulls on a pale gold silk robe.

Her curls are let down from her elaborate updo and brushed until her hair shines like molten silver. “Thank you, Missandei,” she murmurs and then grips her friend’s hand. “I hope they treat you well downstairs. If you have any trouble, come directly to me and I shall sort it. You are valued.”

There’s a short knock on the door and it’s only for the sake of being polite. Jon walks into the room, and she notices that he’s lost his jacket and cravat. Missandei curtsies towards her and takes her wedding gown so that it can be pressed and hung.

Her eyes sweep over him slowly, and he seems to do the same. He narrows the gap between them, pushing away from the door over to where she is stood. “Wife,” he murmurs to her, pulling his fingers through her loose strands of hair. She hums at him, her arms dangling at her sides. The room is warm around her and she feels a rise of nervousness fill her petite body.

Jon’s shirt hangs open at the top, allowing her to catch a glimpse of the pale marble flesh beneath, “Have you enjoyed today?”

Her long lashes flutter as she looks at him, surprised that he wants to talk to her. From what both her mother and Desmera have told her, most husbands get straight to the point the moment the bedroom door is shut. But for all the hunger which stirs in Jon’s eyes, he doesn’t unleash it. At least, he hasn’t yet anyway.

Her dreams have been plagued with visions of all the things he could do to her, and she is reminded of the sweet memories of being consumed by that first kiss. She is curious to find out what happens next. Daenerys is not frightened, she’s almost excited. He’s sworn her devotion and she knows she’ll get passion. He’s promised her happiness and she wants to believe him.

“Today has been tiring, but I shall remember it fondly. My father did not want a dull affair, and my mother made certain it was to his standards.” Daenerys stares down at her finger, where her wedding band is resting. Next to it is the ring which Jon gifted to her earlier, the topaz sparkles under the candlelight. “I was surprised you gave me the second ring. Do you believe that pretty things will earn my affection?”

“On the contrary, sweetheart. I’ll continue to buy you pretty things because you have my affection and nothing shall shine as bright as you.”

“Pretty words, husband. Perhaps you are a poet after all,” she teased, feeling strangely at ease with him. He has an affect on her of both exciting something unknown within and making her feel completely comfortable. The clash of feelings is as dizzying as it is divine.

“Actions will speak louder, sweetheart,” he mutters, pushing his lips against her own. The memory of their last kiss sustains her desire, and there is a clash of tongues. She's drowning in the rapture of him, as his hands hook the collar of her robe and peel it away from her body, allowing it to fall to the floor.

Her hands catch his neck, finding purchase there as their needy kiss grows more aggressive. She pulls away gasping, eyes wide, lips plump and parted. Jon runs a thumb over her lip, smirking as she trembles.

“Do you want me?”

She does, she knows that she does. Daenerys does not know what it is exactly what she wants, but she’s desperate to find out. Her half-lidded eyes drink up the sight of Jon. His heavy breathing makes his hard chest rise and fall rapidly, and has that look on his face once again. It’s dark and hungry like he’s been made from every sinful thing known to man. She feels as though she’ll be damned to hell for even taking a taste.

“I-,” she starts, trying to find the words. It’s rare that she is lost for words since Daenerys Targaryen always has so much to say. “Show me what it is that I long for. Show me why I quiver beneath your touch. You’ve made so many promises to me already, I want to know if you’re good to your word.”

That is it then. His lips are on her neck nipping the spot behind her ear, and she’s pulling at his shirt until the creamy white material comes apart from the buttonholes. He’s toned, and she wonders what activities have made his body so defined. Most lords look a little podgier from their leisure unless they are naturally slender. Her fingers trace of the contours of his chest and she doesn't miss the light scars which mark his body. She’ll ask him about them one day.

She is led back towards the bed, and a light tug on the centre bow of her nightgown sees it split apart, sliding down her arms until she is left completely bare before him.

Fingers trace the sides of her breasts and the milky flesh there. Jon grasps them with his hands. They fit perfectly, almost like she was made for him. She leans into his touch, enjoying the feeling of him brushing his fingers over her puckered nipples.

His body is so close, she can feel every part of him, especially the way his hardness strains against his breeches.

They stop moving when her legs hit the back of the bed. Her heart hammers in her chest as he pushes her backwards. She crawls up the bed on her back until her head is cushioned by the duck feather pillows. Daenerys watches as he looks over her, as though he is a blind man seeing the sun for the first time. She wishes that she could crack open his head sometimes, to discover what he’s thinking.

He pulls at his the laces of his breeches, and shoves them down his hips. Every part of him is lightly muscled, as though he has been on the land with his men. Her eyes land on the appendage which juts out from his body, causing her cheeks to tint with a rosy blush. She’s never seen a man before, not like that. “Can I touch it?” she asks curiously, and suddenly Jon sounds like he’s choking.

“If the Lady wishes,” he responds, climbing onto the bed beside her.

Dany bites her lip and reaches forward, her fingers are unsure as she sweeps them over the head. Jon grunts and grips her hand, “Games for another day, my love. I’ve waited so long to have you and now you’re mine.”  

Jon lies on his side and strokes his hand down her body. While her mother and Desmera painted the image of the wedding bed meekly, Margaery said that there was a little pain first and then it would feel good.

Her breath catches in her throat as his hands trail beyond her belly, going lower to delve between her thighs. There he begins to caress the intimate parts of her body, pulling gaps from her mouth as she arches to meet his touch. Her head falls back against the pillow, and she rubs her lips together with desire. She feels a familiar wetness between her legs, which only seems to spur on her husband’s eager appetite.

His fingers prod at her entrance, sliding into the tight heat, while his thumb continues to rub at the nub. “Jon,” she gasps, as she feels jolts of pleasure running down her back. The teasing of her body continues, eliciting quiet moans of pleasure and heavy breathing, as she writhes in the sheets beneath his touch, squirming with desire. She meets the same edge as her dreams, but unlike her dreams she only seems to climb higher as Jon’s free hand plays with her breasts, pinching and rolling until it’s almost painful.

“Oh-“ she exclaims, as she chases her release while his fingers work her body. Her form shakes against the bed, thighs quiver and she looks up at him lustfully.

“Do you believe me yet?” he challenges. She watches as he strokes himself and she’s almost transfixed. It's sinful and erotic to watch him, but she can’t tear her gaze away. “By God, you will. You’ll discover what it means to be mine.”

His stormy eyes almost look black and she knows he will claim her now. Jon moves above her, rocking his cock against her in a teasing manner which has her whimpering with need. Daenerys is still coming down from her high and remains a puddle beneath him, yet she feels a new wave of desire blossoming in the pit of her stomach.

Jon grips her left thigh, lifting it up until it bends, allowing him to get closer to her, while his other hand rests beside her head. He presses a kiss to her lips, as though he’s determined to consume every part of her once again.

She feels him momentarily release her thigh so that he can line up against her entrance and push in slowly. Daenerys gasps at the stretch, her eyes close as her body accommodates his thick cock. She wines into the kiss, wincing from the sting as he pushes himself to the hilt. When he stills above her, she is grateful for a moment to adjust to him.

Her eyes peel open and match his intense gaze, which is both desirous and full of concern. As the sting ebbs away to a slow ache, she nods at him to move, her hands reaching to slide over his shoulders.

His pace is slow at first. She knows he’s savouring the moment. He’s said repeatedly that he’s waited a long time for her. She just didn’t realise that she was waiting for him too. “Oh god, Dany,” he groans as he continues to claim her body, rocking above her as they join together. Sweat beads down her back, her body flushing as he rocks his hips harder, hand tightening on her thigh.

Their kisses are full of hunger, as they are claimed by pleasure. She is definitely no better than the harlots on Greek Street.

“Jon,” she whines, realising that her body is once again desperate to find release. Meanwhile, he grunts above her, thrusting hard into her, finding a place deep inside her which she didn’t even know exists.

“Touch yourself. Touch yourself as I did earlier,” he grunts, clearing holding off from collapsing above her. She wants to blush from the suggestion, but the idea is too enticing.

Her hand slips to where their bodies are joined, to toy with the bundle of nerves until she’s clenching around him. It was coming that euphoric feeling. It wasn’t her first time experiencing pleasure, but it was the first time she felt completely fulfilled.

Daenerys crests around him, and he follows suit, surging forward to spill into her. She tears her lips away and cries out in pleasure, riding the blissful waves of her orgasm, shaking beneath him until she goes limp.

Jon groans into her neck, his curls sticking to his forehead as his body heaves from his efforts. He rolls over, to fall at her side. Both lie atop the sheets, sated from their coupling. “So that’s what it’s like,” she mutters to herself, brushing her loose hair away from her face with her hands.

After a little while, Jon stands up from the bed and goes to relieve himself. When he comes back, he’s holding a damp cloth which he swipes between her legs. She hisses unexpectedly and he looks a little guilty. He cleans away the remnants of their lovemaking from her body, although she knows the messy sheets will need to be changed in the morning. The evidence of a consummated marriage.

Once the cloth is placed down, he pulls the blue damask duvet over her naked body and climbs in beside her, pulling her close to him until his soft breath is on her neck.

She is lured into an exhausted sleep, feeling both warm and content in Jon’s arms.

Later, a core-shaking howl jolts her from her sleep during the witching hour, leaving her indigo eyes wild and full of alarm as she stares out of the window at the moon, while Jon remains motionless beside her. 


	6. Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than expected to write. I’m getting more focused again and the muse is back. I will also soon be releasing a couple of modern stories because Jon/Daenerys is shippable in almost all verses.

**Winterfell Estate**

**May 1775**

When morning comes, Daenerys is surprised to find that the space beside her is barren. Her indigo eyes glance around the room, wondering if Jon is getting ready for the day. But after a few moments, she realises that she’s completely alone in their shared bedroom. She rolls over onto her front with a huff. She isn’t sure what she was expecting, but it does feel a little isolating to wake up alone. 

The door clicks open, but she doesn’t look up. Instead, she pushes her face into the cushions. The comforting warmth of the bed is too inviting to leave.

She feels the bed dip slightly, and then the sheets are slowly peeled away from her body, exposing her body to the air. Hot kisses are placed against the curve of her spine, decorating her back with splashes of warmth. Daenerys hums and burrows her head deeper into the pillows. 

“Time to get up,” Jon murmurs against her back, hands stroking down her sides. He delivers a teasing slap to the globes of her arse which makes her yelp with surprise. Daenerys pushes away from the pillows and twists to look up at him. 

“How do you feel?” Jon asks her and it feels like a loaded question. Physically or emotionally? She wonders which he’s referring to, although it’s likely the former since she was only welcomed into the world of marital sex several hours before. 

“I’m fine,” she responds blandly, which he doesn’t appear to like. He catches her face in his hands, dark eyes searching her own. 

“Please don’t do that. I want there to be no secrets between us and we must always be honest with one another. I have no patience for lies,” his words are gentle, but she knows not to refuse. Jon doesn’t seem like the kind of man who would hurt those that he loves, and she highly doubts he would ever raise a hand to her, but there’s something dark about his requests which makes her shudder. 

She doesn’t fear him, he’s never given her any reason to. It’s only ever excitement which she feels, which is baffling as it is intoxicating. “For your safety, I ask that you not go wandering into the forest which surrounds our land. It’s dense and you’re likely to get lost, with no promise of us finding you before nightfall.” 

“Are there wolves in the forest?” she asks suddenly. His hand stills on top of her own and he frowns deeply, his body has grown tense beside her. “Last night, I was awoken by the sound of a howl.” 

Jon mutters something under his breath which she can’t quite make out and then rises from the bed. He doesn’t say anything to her, and she feels a flicker of anger inside. Whose keeping secrets now? 

“Well?” Her tone is more abrupt than she anticipates. 

“Wolves and other beasts, sweetheart.” He’s angry, she can hear it in his voice. Daenerys has a feeling it’s not directed at her, but his mood has shifted so quickly. “It seems we’ shall have unexpected guests this evening.”

Before she can question how he knows, there’s a polite knock at the door. In walks Missandei, a fine gown slung over her arm, and an apologetic expression worn on her face. Jon takes it as his cue to leave and presses a delicate kiss to the top of her head. Daenerys is reminded at that moment that despite her husband’s tenderness and want for her, they are still strangers to one another. She barely knows anything about him, other than rumour and what small tales he has told her. The more she thinks about it, the more peculiar she finds it to be. 

“Something on your mind, your grace?” Missandei prods, as she moves about the chambers. Daenerys glances at the small dish on her bedside, where the pale blue sapphire ring sits, sparkling in the rays of sunlight which beam through the windows. When Jon had given it to her at the feast, he had kissed her fingers and told her that she was as bewitching as the moon. She had teased him and said he was sounding more and more like a poet, with each day that passed. Her husband had then come up with an excuse about spending too much time with Podrick. 

“No, Missandei. Please draw me a bath, my husband should get used to the fact that I shall bathe each day to remain clean.” 

Daenerys hopes that Margaery will arrive soon so that she can have the comfort of a familiar face. As the lady of the house, Daenerys knows that she must walk around in such a way that will inspire respect from all those who serve her family. Jon is her family now, although she still struggles to settle that within her mind. She’s still a Targaryen, even if her name has changed. 

The Duchess of Winterfell, that is her official title. She outranks her parents, brothers and all of her friends. She doesn’t feel any different though. When she used to imagine married life, Daenerys always thought that she would feel something else, more settled perhaps? But she had woken up feeling just as she did before, the only difference was that she’d experienced something new. 

The great mystery about what happens in the marital bedroom has been broken, and she can’t help but wonder why everyone was so secretive in the first place. Sure, she had writhed in the sheets in an ungodly manner, clinging to Jon as though he were the source of her life, but he had not made her feel shameful about it. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy making her whimper and wine beneath him.

Daenerys feels her body flush, as she moves to stand in front of the mirror, as naked as her birth. There are marks on her porcelain flesh, reminders of her husband’s hungry nature. She wonders if he will cherish her in the same way tonight. Jon is good at physically showing her who he is, but she needs more words from him. Who is the man that she has married? She’s desperate to find out.

It is some time before Daenerys leaves her bedroom dressed in a gown of pale grey, after taking her breakfast in her rooms, a courtesy permitted to married women only. She has yet to go on a grand tour of the estate, so she follows the hallway until she meets the stairs, trying to recall the way in which she’d journeyed the night before. 

“Are you alright, your grace?” The man who addresses her is older than she is, his face is weathered but not unkind. He’s standing to her left with the clear intention of walking down the stairs. 

“Quite well, um…”

“Mormont, your grace. Jorah Mormont, the farrier.” Daenerys cannot help but wonder why the man is so far from the stables, but she doesn’t speak her concern out loud. 

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Mormont.”

“We’re expecting the arrival of your silver today. The stablehand Edd will be making sure that she is cared for.” Ah yes, her beloved silver. If not for her father’s intervention, Loras Tyrell may have ended up with her horse after Viserys selfishly gabled her away, even though the horse was not his to sell. Her willful brother certainly felt the wrath of their father that evening, and in the days that followed. 

“Very good, Mr Mormont. If you’ll excuse me.” 

 In the daylight, Daenerys is able to look more closely at the interior of her new home. It’s more agreeable to her than she first thought, although that won’t stop her from suggesting changes to ensure her comfort. 

The grand staircase which leads down to the foyer is dark and gloomy, but she plans to have flowers decorate the bannisters. 

The familiar sound of Margaery’s charming laugh has her hastening down the stairs, as she seeks out her dear friend. Scooped up in the fawn haired woman’s grasp is a baby with vibrant green eyes which can only come from the Tully bloodline.

“Margaery, dear!” Daenerys gushes, as she greets her warmly. Her eyes are drawn to the rosy-cheeked girl, whose petite and delicate looking, a true Tyrell rose. 

“Should we walk out onto the veranda, while our husbands converse in the drawing-room?” Margaery suggests, giving her a knowing look. The nanny is dismissed, for Margaery seems intent on being more in her daughter’s company than it is expected of her. The baby does not struggle at all, she remains calmly nestled in Marg’s arms. Daenerys does not know too much about children, apart from what she's seen of her niece and nephew. They are the only people in the world that Cersei truly cares about, Daenerys is certain of that. Naturally, it makes her think of her future children with Jon. Will she love them instantly? Will she be doomed to have all daughters like the Manderly's? 

It is nice to speak with Margaery freely, without the fear of being scolded. Her father has forbidden their friendship for too long, and Daenerys is pleased that her marriage has ended the unfortunate rift. They grew up together, yet this is the first time that she is meeting Rose. It all seems very strange and saddening. 

"Lost in your thoughts?" Her friend is smirking at her when Dany looks. A faint blush covers her cheeks, as she gives a curt nod and walks outside. They're further north than her childhood residence, and she's certain that it's colder. Daenerys shivers slightly as she takes a seat. Most of the sunlight is blocked out by ancient trees, which grow thick and long in the dense forest which surrounds the vast estate. Splinters of sunlight peek through the gaps in the branches, dotting the surrounding field with light. 

The veranda is completely shaded, so Daenerys is grateful when Missandei walks outside with a shawl, "Thank you," she murmurs, and settles it around her shoulders. The maids begin to bring out the teas and sweet bakes, while Margaery rocks Rose in her arms.

"Would you like to hold her? 

She nods her head and remains where she is seated. Margaery places the baby into her arms, adjusting Daenerys' hold so that she is supporting the head. Once Margaery is satisfied that Rose is safely tucked into her grasp, her friend moves to sit back down. 

"We did not have too much of an opportunity to speak yesterday, so many were in need of your attention." While enjoyable and lavish, the wedding had been exhausting. She barely had a moment to herself, other than when she was eating. That was when Jon had taken the moment to slip the sparkling topaz ring onto her finger, and whisper assuring and loving words into her ear. 

"No, I was quite busy." Daenerys reasons, drifting her free hand down the side of Rose's porcelain features. She is doll-like in her beauty, so small and innocent.

“I remember from my own wedding that it is a tiring day,” Margaery offers, before drawing herself nearer to Daenerys. “Was Jon kind to you?” 

She understands the double meaning of what Margaery is asking. Prior to the wedding, her friend had assured her of Jon’s devotion and kind nature, in a friendly and necessary attempt to calm Danny’s frazzled nerves.

“He was most agreeable,” she responds politely, finding the conversation to be borderline uncomfortable. She had grown up in a household which remained tight-lipped about what happened in a marriage, and her parent's union was every bit the contract that it had designed to be, even after over thirty years together. Daenerys never wanted that for herself, but she had long accepted that marriage and love were not always one.  But Jon makes her blood heat and her cheeks flush, and she cannot imagine ever being indifferent towards his devotion.

When Jon whispers that she is his, it doesn’t feel like a shackle has been placed around her wrist, for he is just as equally hers. 

“I like him so very much,” she whispers, her feelings gnawing at her. Rose wriggles softly in her arms, nuzzling her face closer against her chest, before settling once more. 

Daenerys looks away from Margaery and far off into the distance. As she looks at the trees, she feels a strange familiarly. In the distance, she spots something which takes her by surprise, “Is that a waterfall I see?” Daenerys asks, squinting. 

“Yes. I think Jon likes to go there to be alone, but it’s quite a walk to get there,” Margaery’s chipper voice does not pierce through the ice which fills her veins. She is reminded of a dream, a dream so long ago that she had almost forgotten it. When she was a little girl, Daenerys used to dream often of a waterfall, and there she would meet the strangest wolf she had ever seen, pure snow white with fierce red eyes, but it never scared her. When she had dreamed of the wolf again a few weeks ago, she had thought nothing of it. But now, she’s jarred by how strange it all is.

“Are you okay? You’ve gone very quiet.” 

Daenerys presses a smile to her lips, and nods her head earnestly, “Just in my own thoughts, it happens quite a lot.”

It is sometime later when Jon walks outside, soft curling tendrils come loose from the knot at the back of his head, and she can see that he’s tugged at his necktie. He must be stressed, for he doesn’t smile at her as he walks over, but he does gently bump his head against her own - for such a simple action, it’s strangely intimate. 

“Some of my distant relatives are coming for dinner this evening, my love. They were disappointed to have missed the wedding due to a prior engagement, but hope to share in our happiness.” She can feel the way his fingers slide over the topaz ring. Despite his mention of family, Daenerys gets the sense that Jon is not in the least bit happy about his relatives' visit. 

“Have the staff been notified? I had hoped to meet with Mrs Crook before lunch, but I’ve been preoccupied,” she murmurs, motioning towards Margaery and Rose. 

“Aye, she did mention something of it this morning,” Jon responds gruffly, and she wonders if he’s displeased by her lack of commitment to the house. “Don’t fret, my wife, you are not on trial. I understand that your father may have demanded things from your mother, but I have no desire to do such a thing to you.” 

She looks at him and frowns, “You’re not like most men, Jon Stark.” 

He puts his hands on either side of her hips and pulls her closer, which makes her gasp, “Jon!” Daenerys looks around for Margaery, but it’s only the two of them outside. “Anyone could see,” she whispers, even if she feels herself drawing near. 

“What does it matter? I am yours and you are mine...let them look.” It takes little persuasion for her to lean forward, to kiss his wanting lips tenderly. Daenerys wants to know every inch of her husband, inside and out. If she could steal him away to only be in her keeping while she dissects his mind and discovers everything about him, she would. Ever since she met him, she’s been falling, and now she wants to know all of his secrets.

When they met, he said that he had been waiting for her. She understands why, but not how. Being in his company, feeling the way he cherishes her, Daenerys knows that there is nothing more important than them - something worth waiting for. But how? It’s the biggest secret. 

“Will you take me to the waterfall sometime?” Daenerys asks, hoping that he will share in the place which he likes to escape. She wonders if Jon would be annoyed at Margaery for revealing something so private, but does not dwell on it.

“Tomorrow,” he promises and tucks her into his side. Her body is pressed firmly against his own and is close enough that she can lean her head to his shoulder.  “We’ll take a picnic, and plenty of blankets to keep you warm.” 

“Surely you can keep me warm enough without all the blankets.” 

“You are too naughty, Lady Stark.”


	7. The Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support on the last chapter. The response to this story continues to surprise me, but I’m ever so grateful for it. I’m glad you love it just as much as I do. I know that there was quite a gap between the last chapter, and the chapter previous to that, which had people concerned that I’d abandoned the story. I promise that I won’t abandon this story, there are still so many exciting things to come and believe me, we’re just getting started. On that note, I hope you enjoy the latest instalment and I’ll see you with the next one soon - Charlotte. 

The skies darken with the threat of rain before the evening arrives, which makes the estate look even more gloomy and ancient from the outside. Of course, the interior tells a different tale. Laughter can be heard in the hallways as the Starks ready themselves for dinner. Throughout the day, those who had stayed on or near her family’s estate after the wedding, have now made their way back to their own homes. The remaining Starks arrive at Winterfell in the afternoon, and Daenerys is able to spend some time with them. 

She’s fitted in an evening gown for dinner, it’s golden in colour and goes marvellously well with her  [ blue diamond ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/35/e6/a2/35e6a2cb9b82eb604ea30f64f30bdffd.jpg) ring, which she swears never to remove. Just before she leaves her shared-chambers, Jon pulls her close. He presses a kiss to the back of her neck and clasps a matching necklace around her neck.

“Are you certain that you’re not trying to buy my affection?” she teases, looking at her appearance through the mirror. He smiles at her, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. 

“I think you like me well enough already, Daenerys.” Jon wraps his arms around her, hugging her from behind. As she watches them standing in the mirror, it occurs to how well matched they look. She always looked at handsome couples in her girlhood and wondered if she would look that good with her own husband. Those were the days when she had her crush on Arthur, who looked at her as nothing more than a little girl. Daenerys chuckles to herself at how naive her crush on him had been. Now when she looks at him, Daenerys can’t remember what it is about him which made him so charming to her. 

“This necklace belonged to my mother, as did the ring I gave you on our wedding day. When the end was near, she told me that the jewels were no longer her's, and that I was to give them to the girl I dreamed of.” Jon smiles then, as though he’s recalling a fond memory. He holds her closer still, with arms snaked around her waist. “A girl I swore to protect and cherish, until my dying breath.” 

She turns in his grasp slowly, her arms reaching up to loop around his neck. “Bleeding poet again, Jon?” she murmurs, searching his face. “You say strange things. You speak as though we have always been fated, that you knew that the moment I saw your face, I would recognise another part of myself. These are the words of tales, not real life.” She presses a kiss to his lips softly, her fingers caressing the back of his neck and tied back curls. 

“I dreamed of you, and I think you dreamed of me too.” He pulls away from her and instead offers his arm. “I promise that I shall tell you more tomorrow, but our guests are waiting.” She mulls over his words, wanting to believe with every fibre of her being that he will unveil his own mystery.

“Very well. We must not keep our guests waiting.” She takes his offered arm, allowing her fingers to brush against his well-tailored jacket. 

She is curious about their guests, and why Jon seems so irritated by their unexpected arrival. It won’t be too long before her father expects an invitation for dinner, likely to remind her husband that they are very much family now. Aerys Targaryen is certainly not the kind of man which her husband would enjoy the company of, having expressed his own disappointment over the ill-treatment of her mother. 

Aerys only ever presented Rhaella with gifts when she gave him a child, and scorn when a babe came too early. Despite being married for only a day, Daenerys can already feel the pressure and expectation of having children. Before too long, Jon would surely come to expect it. She knows that a man has little patience in that regard, but maybe he will prove himself to once again be different to his peers. Apart from Viserys, he’s entirely different. The thought of a child probably makes him want to never enjoy such pleasures again, being the selfish creature that he is.

Daenerys decides that she will invite Desmera around for a ladies lunch, it would do her sister good to get out of the manor. She certainly fears that despite her father's loathing for Viserys, he is the most like him, and that does not bode well for his wife’s happiness.

“You’re doing it again, my darling,” Jon hums against her ear. Daenerys becomes aware of her surroundings and realises that they’ve travelled along the corridor and down the stairs, and she recalls doing none of it. Some women have been accused of female hysteria for much less and sent to live in an asylum. Not that any of them actually had any madness of the mind, but it was an easy way for a man to be rid of his wife. 

“Sometimes my thoughts are all too consuming,” she responds bashfully and caresses his cheek with her hand. 

“You can always tell me your troubles, Dany.” It was easy to believe that he would not judge her, despite the weak impression that she had got of marriage growing up. But her own happiness with Jon made her feel all the more sad for her eldest brother. Rhaegar had done his duty and his heart suffered for it. 

“Later,” she whispers softly and squeezes his arm. Her husband nods his head in agreement, then once again offers his arm to her. 

Unfamiliar voices fill her ears, swirling in her mind as she tries to place them. It does not take Daenerys long for her to realise that she has never seen or heard of these people before - they must undoubtedly be the unexpected visitors which Jon has mentioned.

Beneath the light of dozen of candlelight, a girl with pale features and dark raven strands steps forward, her cheeks flushed with a hint of pink. She is very beautiful, Daenerys observes, as she walks forward with a polite smile. Rhaella taught her how to be a Lady of the house, and that is exactly what she is going to be. 

“Cousin Jon,” the girl speaks brightly, her arms folding around Jon in a familiar greeting. They must be distant cousins, or else they would surely have made it to the wedding. 

Daenerys realises that while Jon seems glad to see the girl, he does not greet the gentleman with the same courtesy. “Uncle Rickard,” Jon greets tensely, holding out his hand tensely towards the man. The fierceness of her husband’s expression falls as he looks at her, and motions towards her. “May I introduce the Duchess of Winterfell and my wife, Daenerys.” 

The man steps closer to her, allowing her to fully access his appearance. Unlikely the girl, he is aged and sprinkled with grey hair, his belly is rounded and eyes lined and sunken from time. “A pleasure to meet you,” she smiles politely, tucking a grimace beneath her lips as he presses an unnecessarily wet kiss to the back of her lace gloved hand.

Despite the Karstarks being extended family members, Daenerys realises as she sits down at the dining table after almost an hour of idle chit-chat, that they are not common guests with the Starks. Harald takes a seat beside her, and she is reminded of Robert Baratheon, the ale on his tongue smells the same. He has a slicked-back appearance which doesn’t match the common twang of his voice and the jewel-encrusted sun on his lapel seems far too grand of a trinket, for the Karstarks middle-class income. She wonders if the man has a talent for gambling, or something far sinister. 

He speaks tirelessly of himself, and of his many pursuits. She feigns interest while dipping her spoon into her soup, and casts a glance over at Jon who is sat opposite her. He’s flanked by Rickard and Alys, the pretty raven-haired girl. Daenerys clenches the silverware slightly, although she blames her tense mood on Harald’s poor company. 

“Did you hear me, my lady?” The voice is closer to her ear than expected, and she whips her head around out of surprise. 

“Sorry?” she excuses herself and tries to lean away from him. Daenerys does not need to look at her husband, to know he’s furious with the proximity. 

“I said, has Jon played with you in the woods yet?” There is a darkness to the words which makes her shiver. “Pretty girls that get lost in the woods want the monsters to devour them...” Her heart pounds in her chest and she clenches the spoon in her hand even tighter until her knuckles turn white and her fingers burn. “...but they soon realise that the monster is already in their bed.” Harald reaches to touch her hand, but she hears the sound of a fist being slammed down on the table, which makes her jump in her skin. 

Her eyes lift to reach Jon’s own pools of fury. He is stood hunching over the table with his hands balled into fists. “That’s enough of your games, Harald. Keep your vile words to yourself.” 

Harald barks out a laugh and claps his hands together greedily. “There he is! Come on, cousin, show your wife the real you, and the beast which you’re concealing from her.” Daenerys tries not to flinch from the implication of his words. 

Alys’ expression is regretful, while Rickard’s is full of feigned annoyance, and dare she believe it, amusement. “Son, apologise at once.” Rickard’s chastisement does not seem genuine, and Daenerys almost believes that they’re trying to purposefully rile up Jon - although she can’t seem to understand why, unless they find it all to be terribly clever. 

She’s grateful for Margaery’s interruption, as her melodic voice slices through the tension as she begins to discuss a new French fashion. Her friend is seated at the opposite end of the table, but makes herself heard to calm down the room. 

The next course passes without incident. Harald leaves the table, and Robb moves to sit beside her, providing her with a far more tolerable conversation. 

It’s hours later when Daenerys excuses herself for bed, and Jon promises to follow soon, once he’s had a drink and a cigar with the other gentleman. She isn’t even sure he enjoys it all that much, but the men would accuse him of being impolite for not partaking in the manly ritual.  

Daenerys climbs the stairs with a slowly, stifling a yawn as she does. The day has been surprisingly long and rather eventful. Harald Karstark’s taunts remain present in her mind, as considers the hidden meaning behind the dark works. It’s possible that they were spoken falsely, but she knows that the intention had been to rile Jon up. But why? 

She crosses the hallway and stares up at one of the paintings which affixed to the stone wall, very close to the master bedroom. It seems to depict the woods which surround Winterfell, while wolves dot the canvas in a surprising addition to the painter's work. But then she remembers what Jon said about there being wolves and other beasts in the woods. So when she thinks about it, the painting does seem all that strange.

Grateful for the moment when she can finally climb into bed, Daenerys falls asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow. Missandei had meticulously combed out her hair and dressed her in a thin, lace-trimmed nightgown. There was nothing plain about Daenerys’ choice of wardrobe. 

Daenerys wakes up feeling breathless, writhing in soft sheets and arching from the bed lustfully. Her hands stroke over a mop of dark curls, which bob between her legs as Jon flicks his eager tongue over her sex. By the sound of faint movement in the corridors outside her bedroom and the strand of light from beneath the curtains, she can tell that it is once again the morning. 

Her toes curl from the sensations and she lets out a gasp. Jon pauses his ministrations and looks at her with a devilish glint in his eyes. “Good morning,” he murmurs against her mound of flesh, which sends sparks down her spine.

Strong hands grip her thighs to hold her in place, as she lets out short, breathless moans. She cannot escape the growing pleasure which prickles across her skin. Nipples harden and her cheeks flush.

She chants Jon’s name as she peaks, shuddering as she comes down from the euphoric high. Her body rocks against Jon’s hot mouth, eyes watering from the sexual relief. 

Jon’s cock is rock solid as he slides it across her quivering sex, nudging the tip against her throbbing clit. Her body is sensitive to his touch, but still hungry for more. 

Thick hands move up the soft curves of her body, as he climbs back up the bed. She looks up at him through hooded eyes, heart beating excitedly in her chest. He grabs her legs and pushes them up to her chest while sinking into her heat at a maddeningly slow and deliberate pace.

She grips his thighs as he rocks forward, growing in momentum. Daenerys is caged in by Jon’s own body, which consumes every part of her. His breath is hot as he lays kisses to her neck, grunting as he ruts inside of her, the lewd sounds of their lovemaking filling the room, as his flesh slaps against her own.

The bed groans beneath them, but she cannot bring herself to care if anyone can hear them. She can tell that Jon is close, and she’s right there with him. He’s whispering her name as his fingers bite into her thighs and she clings to him for dear life. It’s maddening and the most exhilarating feeling. 

When their efforts are spent, they lay wrapped up in one another. The steady beat of Jon’s heart thrums beneath her ear, as she keeps her head cushioned against his chest. 

The events of the night before plague her, she cannot stop thinking about Harald. It had been as though the entire purpose of his visit had been to antagonise his host. 

“I do not understand what happened last night.”

Jon frowns at her but combs his hand through her tangled strands. “My cousin defies comprehension.” It’s not the answer she’s looking for, in fact, she’s more than disappointed with his response. “Don’t sulk, my love. I told you, I intend to share all of my secrets with you.” 

“When?” She asks impatiently.

“I promised you a picnic by the waterfall, did I not?” 


	8. Destiny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, angels! The pre-Christmas chaos took over my life and I switched from PC to Mac, which was a challenge in itself. I’ve had to get used to the quotation marks being on the other side of the keyboard. Anyway, I really thank you for your patience and I hope you enjoy the next installment. My focus for 2020 is to be much more regular with updates on all stories, so it’s every couple of weeks at the max. 

They’re slower to rise from the bed than the day before, both take breakfast in bed and devour the contents of the daily newspaper. When she moves away from Jon to stand up from the bed, he tugs her back with a wolfish grin. When he smiles, he looks so much younger than his years, and she feels her heart expand from the sight. He smiles at her as though he’s never smiled at anyone else that way.

“I could spend an eternity here with you,” he whispers against the shell of her ear, and she presses a soft palm to the side of his face in response.

“An eternity is a very long time,” she comments with an amused tone. Daenerys positions her legs on either side of him and settles on his lap. “Will you not tire of me?” Despite her saying the words in order to tease her new husband, she realises that the thought of such a thing does sting. How quickly she has come to crave his attention. 

He shakes his head at her and captures her lips between his own. It’s a kiss full of passion and need, as if to remind her that she will always be his. The thought of being claimed by any man often turned her stomach, but being claimed by Jon is something entirely new and exciting. 

Firm hands slide down her body to grip her arse, and she’s tempted to melt into his arms and forgo any plans to leave the bedroom altogether. 

Daenerys tears her lips away and presses a single finger against to Jon’s. “Picnic,” she tells him sternly. “The household will need instruction, and I still need to meet with the applicants for the second ladies’ maid position. I already left Mrs Crook waiting yesterday, and I do not intend for it to become a habit...no matter how much you try to persuade me with your sinful mouth.”

Jon smirks and his face is graced with a playful expression, which fades away the years from him and makes him look less like a brooding Lord and more like a young man in love. Sometimes she wonders what sorcery it is, which makes her care for him so deeply, in such a short amount of time. 

“Well we wouldn’t want to incur Mrs Crook’s wrath, now would we?” 

Daenerys untangles herself from his grip and climbs from the bed. As she walks over to the mirror, she can feel Jon’s eyes on her.

“What is it?” she asks, pushing pale strands behind her ears. 

“I’m wondering how any other view could top the sight of you.” Daenerys rolls her eyes, despite the blush which colours her fair skin. 

“Jon! If anyone should hear such words, what would they think of me? They’ll say that I’m a witch charged with fogging your mind or a dangerous temptress that is more whore than duchess.” Jon rolls his eyes at her, and scrambles from the bed to stand behind her. She's caught in his grip and pulled back so that she can feel his growing erection against her backside. Distractions, so many distractions.

“Just because I desire your body and you desire mine, does not make you a whore. Your teachers tell you to be pious and ladylike, which is perfectly fine in public. But they cannot deny the passion of love and the pleasures which can be derived from it. Stop thinking that you’re wanton just because you crave the pleasures of the flesh. God designed it so that humans mate with one another, so how can that be a sin?” His fingers sweep over the tops of her breasts, as she purses her lips together. 

Rhaella always acts so scandalised when kissing is discussed, as though that alone is a great sin. It seems that her father does very little to make her mother feel cherished, although Daenerys already knew that. She has often been able to temper her father’s fury since she has always been his undoubted favourite child. The pearl of his world, the perfect bargaining tool for more power.

“I don’t mean to complain, darling,” Daenerys reasons in an apologetic tone. “Your own childhood sounds far more liberal than my own and has been influenced by an expression of love and passion which you must have seen in your parents. But my own upbringing was stuffy and very English. My parents sleep separately and I’ve never seen them show an ounce of affection to one another.”

Jon turns her around and hugs her, pressing her arms to her sides, as he breathes into her neck gently. “It’s different and that’s okay. I never want you to feel ashamed about the things that happen in our bedroom, they’re for us and us alone.” He whispers the words to the skin between her neck and shoulder, and she shivers from the rush of heat. 

Daenerys nods at him, although she knows that it’ll take time for her views on the matter to shift. 

She leaves the bedroom later than expected since Jon had done his very best to distract her from daily life with soft kisses against her skin. 

Dressed in a mulberry toned gown, which is richer than her usual appearance of soft blues and creams, she almost feels regal as she walks down the familiar staircase. As she walks into the drawing-room, she addresses one of the footmen and requests Mrs Crook’s presence, at her earliest convenience. 

One of the footmen, whose name escapes her, walks in with a tray of tea and biscuits. Daenerys decides that once everything has calmed down and she’s settled into her role, she’ll visit her mother at Dragonstone. 

Mrs Crook walks in with a neutral expression, keys jangling from an iron ring which hangs from the woman’s waist. “Your grace,” Mrs Crook addresses her formally and stands in front of her with her hands clasped. 

“Will you not take a seat, Mrs Crook? Daenerys invites, motioning to the chair opposite her. “Please forgive my negligence yesterday, I had hoped to meet with you to discuss the household. Missandei says that she has informed the staff about the picnic which the Duke and I, will be having later today.”

“Everything is being prepared for you,” Mrs Crook confirmed, keeping her back rigid as she perches on the end of the chair. It’s almost as if the woman fears that the fabric will burn her for daring to sit. 

“Splendid work, Mrs Crook.” Daenerys doesn’t want to come across as patronising, but she also needs to affirm her position as the lady of the house. As much as she loves dear Margaery, it would be all too tempting for the staff to default to her, given that she’s been acting as such since her marriage to Robb. 

“When are the applicants for the ladies’ maid position arriving?” she enquires. Daenerys takes a silver teaspoon and stirs it into the boiling which is filled almost to the rim of the fine china cup. She lifts the cup to her lips and allows the floral tasting liquid to caress the surface of her tongue. 

“They’ll be here in an hour. We’ve whittled down the list, some weren’t appropriate for the position. The Duke is very particular about who we let onto the grounds, so he may wish to have the final say.” Her eyebrow lifts at that. Jon surely doesn’t expect her to get his permission before she hires her ladies’ maid. How ridiculous. 

“My word shall be sufficient, Mrs Crook,” she responds a little more coldly and gives a stern look to the woman. Daenerys doesn’t want her authority to be undermined, especially when it comes to the household. It is a woman’s domain. 

“Very well, your grace.” If Mrs Crook is wounded by Daenerys’ snap, she does not reveal her emotions. She respects the older woman more for it. 

“Once all of our guests have left, I shall be having some work done to the estate. I think it’s important that it should reflect the style of both me and my husband, while still retaining some of it’s more valued history. I should also like to have a meeting with the cook, one of my friends from America has written to me about a few new dishes, and I should like to implement them into our weekly menu.” 

In addition to the more frivolous choices which she will make as a Duchess, Daenerys also wants to know how life can be made better for the land tenants. Jon is the wealthiest man in England, and it’s not through luck alone, so some of that fortune can certainly be spent on the poor. 

She spends the next hour discussing menial things with Mrs Crook, anything to pass the time before the applicants arrive. The butler announces the arrival of the women, and upon Dany’s instruction, invites in the first lady. 

Mrs Crook takes the lead, as expected, to interview the lady. She’s young, dark-haired, and wears her corset tightly drawn in. Daenerys may be wrong, but she has a feeling that the woman is loose-moraled, and while she is trying to be more liberal herself, it’s not something which she can authorise among the staff. Daenerys has heard far too many stories of maids seducing Lords, in hopes of bearing a bastard and living out the pocket of the Lord. 

She does not think that her own husband is weak in that regard, and Daenerys has a mind to make sure that Jon doesn’t stray from her bed,  but she doesn’t know him well enough to be whole-heartedly certain that he wouldn’t be seduced by another pretty woman. 

Once Daenerys has decided that the woman is the wrong sort of fit for the household, she doesn’t listen to the rest of the interview, although she makes sure to keep her eyes flitting from between both Mrs Crook and Miss Jenkins, so that she does not appear rude. 

The next applicant, Meredyth Crane, appears cheerful and good-natured. The girl is perhaps a little younger than Daenerys would originally have hoped for, but she claims to have a talent for hair and is very good with a needle. 

“One Lady spilt beet juice all down her white frock. The whole front turned pink, but I worked at it until it was pristine. It’s a secret from my grandmother, she was ladies’ maid to the last Queen.” Daenerys nods as the girl continues to talk, and it seems that the girl certainly has a lot to say. 

Once the girl’s time is up, she offers a warm smile. “Thank you, Meredyth. If you’d like to step outside for me, and tell the next girl to come in.”

There are five applicants in total, but in the end Daenerys decides that Miss Crane is the best fit. As the afternoon rolls in, her stomach begins to rumble and she feels a rise of anticipation over her picnic with Jon. 

“Thank you for your time, Mrs Crook. Please let Meredyth know that she can start on Monday, or earlier if she’s able to make the arrangements.”

She leaves the drawing-room with Mrs Crook, but turns down the corridor to walk over to Jon’s study. Daenerys is tempted to walk in without knocking, but she remains outside the thick wooden door and raps gently against the hard surface. 

Her husband’s voice fills her ears, as he invites her in. She walks in and feels the heat which almost pounds against the walls. There’s an enormous fireplace which takes up a large portion of the left wall, while Jon’s desk is positioned directly opposite, although it would take a couple of strides to reach either side. Daenerys walks past his desk and sits on the chaise which is located beneath several windows, which are all covered by thick drapes, making the room very dark. 

“No kiss for your husband?” Jon teases, leaning his arms against the desk. From her seat, she shakes her head and lies back on the chaise. 

“Is this where you’ll sleep when we have an argument?” Daenerys ponders, wondering if she’ll ever forbid him from sharing her bed. 

“I certainly hope not.” 

The picnic is prepared for them, and Jon carries the heavy basket while she clutches her skirts, to prevent them from dragging on the damp grass. The waterfall is further away that she had initially expected, and her heart pounds from keeping up with Jon’s confident strides. 

They discuss small things, from her favourite flowers to the best brand of liquor. Daenerys wants to know him better. It’s the only way their marriage will work. She’ll never be satisfied with half-truth’s and she can’t have a marriage like her parents’ or siblings'. 

When they finally arrive at the waterfall, it takes her breath her way, which is a feat in itself given the long walk which she’s just endured to get there. It’s quiet and serene, and she thinks it may be her favourite place in Winterfell. 

Daenerys walks over to the stream and touches the rushing water with her fingertips. She yelps and tugs back her hand, surprised by just how cold it is. 

“Everything is colder here,” Jon teases, settling down the picnic basket on the ground.

“Not everything.” She retreats from the stream and moves towards him. Daenerys grips him by the shoulders and places a hot kiss against his mouth. As quickly as it comes, she moves away to unpack the basket. The blanket is put down first, followed by sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, decadent cakes, fruits, cheeses, bread and wine. The cook even packed the china, so that they can still eat with some grace.

Daenerys loads up her plate, and Jon does the same. Both are hungry after the long walk and are eager for the morsels of food. Jon plucks a quarter-piece of plum from his plate and offers it to her. Instead of using her fingers, her lips slide over his fingers as she takes the sweet treat into her mouth, and softly moans as the fruit juices coat her tongue. 

“Naughty,” Jon winks.

Daenerys blushes, a common occurrence around Jon, but clears her throat. He promised her the truth, and she intends to make sure he keeps those promises. 

“Jon, are you going to tell me more about yourself?” His carefree expression leaves him in a flash. All too quickly the mood has changed, and she already does not like where this is headed.

“You may not like what you hear,” Jon admits to her with a deep frown.

“Tell me. _Please_.”

“The rumours about the Stark family have a source, although the details have grown less clear and more fantastical over the years. We have wolf’s blood in our veins, although it’s potency has dwindled through the centuries. When I was born, so too was Ghost. He is the other half of me, the physical form of my wolf side. The first Starks were able to shift into the form of their wolves at will - it was the magic of witches. But we needed to use our predator instincts less over the centuries, so naturally, the power has faded.”   

“Witches...Wolves. This is a story which you tell to children, Jon.” Her father always wanted to be practical, but her mother was a dreamer. Her logical side had always battled with any fantastical ideas that her mother formed. “I know that I am a woman and perhaps you think that you can easily fool me, but I am no fool.”

“I would not lie to you and I certainly don’t take you for a fool. The moment you were born I dreamed of you, and I knew that you were meant to be mine. Call it destiny, or brand me a lunatic if you wish. My family, like wolves, mate for life. Robb had already started dreaming of Margaery, I remember being so jealous of him. I was older and yet his mate had already come into the world. We were just boys then, teasing one another, while the wolves scrapped in the woods.” Jon’s expression is hollow and dejected. “I thought you would never appear. But then you did, and my life wasn’t just about me.”

“You’re not going to grow fangs and fur are you?” Daenerys asks uneasily, the decadent cakes on her plate all but forgotten. 

Jon reaches out his hand to touch her own, and she tries not to flinch. It’s too much to take in, far beyond her imaginings, she shouldn’t believe a word that he’s saying. But she’s dreamed of a white wolf and the waterfall ever since she was a little girl. 

“No, my love. My ancestors had that power, but in my dreams and sometimes if I’m lost in thought, my mind will connect with Ghost’s and it feels as though I am. I can taste his latest hunt, and feel the dirt beneath my palms.”

Daenerys then pulls a face, hoping she doesn’t appear too disgusted. “Does Ghost have an um mate?” Her cheeks colour and she rugs her hand away from Jon’s to take a sip of her wine. 

“The wolf is an extension of me, meaning that Ghost does not need to mate. But on a fall moon, my desire for you is likely to increase.” Daenerys gulps down the rest of her wine and looks away from him. Others would call him a freak, perhaps have him hung drawn and quartered, just for his peculiar utterings.

“Will I ever meet your wolf?” Daenerys asks, her head feeling a little fuzzy from drinking the wine too quickly. She almost laughs at the sentence as it leaves her mouth. Never in her life did she consider Jon’s secret to be of the supernatural nature. 

“Eventually. I don’t want to overwhelm you,” Jon reasons, but she shakes her head.

“I need to see it to know.” Daenerys clears her throat and wraps her arms around herself. Jon looks torn between doing as she says, and concealing the final piece of mystery from her. Despite her need to trust him and believe in what he’s saying, she can’t rationalise it in her own mind. “Please,” she whispers and places her hand over Jon’s own. 

Daenerys fears that without seeing the beast, she’ll feel as though he’s done nothing but lie to her. She’s never had blind faith in anything, not even her family and it’s all so new with Jon. 

Jon nods his head and rises from the blanket. She’s suddenly aware of all the sounds surrounding her, from the rush of the waterfall as it hits the stream below and the sounds of the birds chirping energetically, as they flit around the border of the woods. Her husband walks forward until he’s surrounded by trees, and she cannot see him. 

It doesn’t take long for her to feel isolated as she sits waiting, nerves on edge. The sound of crunching leaves and cracking twigs makes her heart pound, as Jon reappears at the treeline. 

“Are you sure?” Jon asks, voice full of caution. Despite the anxiety which rises within her, she nods her head. “Come, Ghost,” he calls.

Unconsciously, her fingers grip the blanket beneath her and she tenses as a beast walks to the border of the woods. It’s the same wolf that she’s dreamed of, with scarlet eyes and snow-white fur. On all fours, the wolf is almost as tall as Jon. Daenerys refuses to show weakness, so she remains rigid as the two of them walk towards her. 

“He won’t harm you,” Jon assures her. The blood pumps in her ears as she reaches out her hand to touch the wolf’s pale fur. It’s the only way that she can be certain that her mind isn’t playing tricks on her. 

“Thank you,” Daenerys replies, and swallows deeply.  Ghost stares at her, leaving her both awe-struck and nauseated. She feels as though her life has been flipped over. Was there ever really a choice when it came to Jon and her? Is her affection for him based on this so-called ‘destiny’ or is it real? She can’t be sure and it makes her recoil from both man and wolf.

“I’m a little chilled. I should like to return to the house.” It takes all of her strength to keep her voice steady, despite the overwhelming need to cry. 

When they return to the manor, Daenerys makes her excuses and heads to bed despite the early hour. She blames her fatigue on the long walk to and from the waterfall. It’s only when her head hits the pillow and she curls onto her side that she allows herself to cry silent tears. She had already begun to feel that her deep need for Jon was unnatural, that she cannot possibly love him so soon in the way that her heart says that she does, despite her need to staunch the hasty emotion. Now it all feels like a lie like she has no control over her own heart and even that has been decided for her.

The bed dips beside her, but she doesn’t make a sound. A part of her hopes that Jon won’t say a word. 

Strong arms curl around her, and she’s cocooned in Jon’s embrace. She hates that it feels like home. More hot tears threaten to fall, but she remains silent. 

“It’s okay to be upset. But I promise that what you feel is real, and I feel it too. Destiny doesn’t control our feelings...those are entirely our own.” 

Daenerys doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t push him away either. 


	9. A Question Of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Shoutout to Joneryswhore on Twitter, who keeps the Jonerys content alive and thriving on my TL. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this latest instalment, and hopefully, you’ll be happy that I didn’t make you wait over a month for an update like I have done in the past...sorry about that. I’ve had good momentum at the moment for making sure that I stay active, which I am looking to maintain. 
> 
> I’m hoping to come out with a modern Jonerys story soon...shock, so look out for that! 
> 
> I keep imaging Desmera as Heida Reed, so I made an edit. Any excuse to make an edit tbh.

**CHAPTER NINE**

 

 

**June 1775**

 

The horse-drawn carriage rocks as the wheels turn over cobbles, jostling her body slightly as she sits on the padded bench and fans herself. Despite the rain, the air is humid and it makes her skin feel damp. She’s always enjoyed hot summer days, but a dry heat is more welcoming than the mugginess of a day like today. It’s not yet summer in England, but the spring rains are proving to be very persistent. 

Impatiently, she pulls back the curtain and pushes down the window slat so that she can peek outside. All that she can see is rolling fields and a dampened road. It will still be some time before she reaches Dragonstone. She leapt at the opportunity to visit her mother, and it certainly had very little to do with her wanting to avoid Jon, or that’s what she said to him while Meredyth packed her trunk.

In the week which followed Jon’s revelation, there had been an unspoken tension and the usual ease which followed between them had been replaced by awkward conversation and dwindling passion. They hadn’t lain with one another since, but her monthly bleeding had come, so that was the perfect excuse to avoid carnal relations.

Truth be told, Daenerys is a little bit disappointed that they did not conceive a child during those first few days of marriage, but she refuses to admit that out loud. Surely if they’re destined, such things should be easy. It’s not as though she feels ready for a baby, it’s simply what’s expected from her. People can’t help but watch newly married couples, waiting for any sign of a quickening. 

She now understands a little of Desmera’s own grief. As the wife of the second son, it’s not imperative that she produce heirs, but for the Targaryen ego, it’s expected. Aerys will certainly be more persistent in his demands, especially now that all his children are wed. 

Daenerys stares down at the pale blue diamond which adorns her ring finger, a constant reminder of her marriage to Jon and the devotion which she swore to her on their wedding day. She doesn’t want their bond to feel tainted by so-called destiny, but the love no longer feels like her own. Its as though someone has pulled the rug out from beneath her. 

When he used to tell her that he’d been waiting for her, Daenerys had always thought he was trying to be mysterious and charming, not a prophecy he was speaking of. 

Daenerys has also avoided speaking with Margaery, who could’ve better prepared her. It feels as though everyone was in on the secret, all except her. 

Denying the blooming love in her heart to spite the idea of destiny is a painful practice, but she has not yet come to terms with the reality of the situation. If they one day have an all-consuming love, how can she know that it is pure feeling and not something contrived by an unknown force which she has no means to battle against. 

She huffs and reclines back against the carriage wall, deciding that a morning nap is far more tolerable than the war in her mind. 

After a couple of hours in the carriage, she finally sets her eyes on her childhood home. It doesn’t call to her in the way that it once had, but it’s not her home any more. Before too long, Rhaegar will take over the Lordship upon her father’s passing, and Cersei will certainly make sure that visits from the remaining Targaryens are left to a minimum. The bitch has little love for anyone but the Lannisters. 

As the carriage is pulled onto the grounds, Daenerys realises that her mother is already stood outside waiting for her. She had not been expecting to be greeted upon her arrival, it’s not as though she’s an unknown visitor. Daenerys touches the navy coloured hat on her head, to make sure it hasn’t been budged during her impromptu nap. 

The moment the carriage door is open, she almost skips down the steps and rushes towards her mother. Such a show of affection is considered uncivilised in a formal setting, but Daenerys does not feel the need to restrain herself among her familiars. 

“Mama,” she murmurs softly, embracing the woman eagerly. Daenerys notices that her mother feels thinner than she did before, and perhaps even a little grayer. “Are you well?” she asks, pulling back to take a closer look at Rhaella. Her mother nods her head in silent assurance and places her hand beneath Daenerys’ chin. 

“The life of a duchess suits you well, my sweet,” Rhaella responds, appearing to ignore any further concerns over her own welfare. “I don’t think that the queen has a frock as fine as this.” Daenerys’ body is encased in a navy velvet gown, with gold stitching on the cuffs and trims, and a pewter under-skirt which peeks through the splits in the upper layer.

It’s true that the Stark purse is heftier than the royal coffers, and Daenerys has always had a taste for fine clothing. 

“Then Cersei will be fit with jealousy,” Daenerys responds slyly, a dark smile tilting the corners of her lips. 

“Just because that woman is as poisonous as a serpent does not mean that we need to stoop to her level,” her mother warns sternly, forcing the sly look from Dany’s fair features.

“Very well, Mama.” Daenerys forces herself not to blush, despite being reprimanded by her mother. They walk inside the manor, and Daenerys takes a moment to look at her surroundings. Everything is just the same as it was a couple of weeks ago, but it still feels strange. It’s not the place which is different, it’s her. 

When she left, she had been a girl and now she is considered a woman. In such a short amount of time, Daenerys has learned so much about the world and what it means to grow up, and have an adult relationship. Of course, she’s still learning and understanding her situation. 

She smiles fondly at Barristan, who presses a kiss to her gloved hand in warm greeting. The butler has always been a second father to her, the soft-reason in place of her natural father’s commanding and bullish nature. That’s probably why he frequently quarrels with Robert Baratheon, since they’re both quick-tempered. 

Daenerys wonders quietly if her father is home. She hopes that he isn’t. Aerys would want to ask her about her marriage, and his own future prospects. As her far as her father is concerned, if Jon is a happy husband then they can go into business together, take out big stakes in future investments of England - with Jon footing the majority of the bill no doubt. 

There’s a thunderous sound of feet rushing down the stairs and she whirls round in surprise. Her niece and nephew wear matching smiles, with their rosy cheeks and pale hair they are a sight for sore eyes. Joanna and Triston are the only good thing that Cersei has ever created. 

“My darlings!” Daenerys exclaims, kneeling to the ground so that she can wrap her arms around both of them. In that moment she doesn’t care about appearances, it’s only among family anyway. Joanna smells faintly of violets, and Daenerys wonders if the little girl has gotten ahold of Desmera’s perfume - it’s much too soft for Cersei’s own poisonous scent. “I declare that you must stop growing, my darlings. You are much too big already, where have the children gone?” The twins giggle and step back from her, although their eyes remain full of excitement and happiness.

After the self-imposed solitude, seeing the children is a welcome escape from her own mind. It’s exhausting when your mind and heart are at war with one another. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Rhaella look at her cautiously. Daenerys wonders what that is all about. 

“Go back to your lessons, children!” Cersei’s sharp voice slices through the air, making Daenerys shudder. They haven’t spoken since her wedding morning, when her brother’s wife had tried to put doubts into her mind about Jon’s honour, clouding what should have been an exciting morning. Bitch. “Daenerys, how wonderful to see you.” Cersei waltzes down the staircase like a demonic presence and opens her bony arms for a fake hug. 

She wants nothing more than to shrug off the woman’s hold and speak her truth. But she doesn’t because she cares about Rhaegar too much. It’s no secret that he hates his wife, but he doesn’t need the headache which comes from everyone complaining about her every five seconds - he already knows that she’s horrible. Cersei never makes an effort with anyone unless their name ends in Lannister. There were once rumours surrounding the closeness of Jaime and Cersei’s bond, which is probably why Jaime was sent to live in America with his new heiress wife, by his father Tywin.

“It’s nice to see you Cersei,” Daenerys returns, and give the woman a condescending bat on the back. She looks around the hallway and then frowns. “Where is Desmera?” 

Rhaella’s features fall, and there’s obvious sadness in her eyes. She is drawn in closer with a light tug of her mother’s hand, and she knows instantly that something is wrong.

“What is it?” Worry immediately flared within Daenerys. She had often felt that Desmera was overlooked, and so she’d tried to spend a lot of time with her once she became part of the family. Even now, Margaery doesn’t ask after Desmera and it makes her sad. 

Rhaella presses a hand to Dany’s shoulder and closes her eyes as if she’s in pain. “Poor child,” she whispers sadly, as Daenerys searches her mother’s face for answers. “She had a miscarriage and your brother is doing all that he can to stay away. He’s a lot like your father in that respect.” Despite the daily troubles that her mother faces from her own marriage, never once has she heard Rhaella say anything bad about her father.

Sorrow fills Daenerys as she thinks of her sister. Her brother’s wife had waited long enough for Viserys to start properly trying for a baby and now that he has. She wanted to throw her arms around Desmera, to hold her and tell her it’ll be okay.

“When did it happen?” Daenerys asks sadly.

“A couple of days ago. I can tell that she’s trying to be strong.” 

Daenerys makes the decision to visit her sister. She does consider the possibility that Desmera would want to be left alone, but Dany wants to make sure that she knows that she isn’t alone. 

She walks slowly up the stairs which she’s climbed many times, feeling the polished wood of the bannister beneath her fingertips. As much as she doesn’t want to pity Desmera’s circumstances, she does. Despite the troubles which she faces in her own marriage, Daenerys is confident that Jon would never leave her alone if the worst should happen. But then, her husband is more doting than most and Jon is rather possessive. 

Outside of the bedroom door, Daenerys takes a deep breath to steady her nerves. She knows that she needs to be strong for her sister, and not show too much of her own emotion towards the situation. When she wants to be, the granddaughter of Olenna Tyrell can be equally as tart-tongued as the thorny woman herself, while lacking Margaery’s pragmatism and natural cham. Then again, it must be frustrating to be constantly compared to your cousin who is apparently perfect in every way. 

Daenerys loves Margaery like a sister, but she isn’t perfect. 

Knocking on the door gently, she waits for Desmera to invite her in. Only when she hears the faint voice does she turn the brass handle, and walk into the dimly lit room. The curtains are drawn, giving the room more of a sombre air to it. To Desmera’s left, there is an oil lamp which gives the woman just enough light that she’d be able to see the words on the book she’s reading. 

Daenerys takes in the woman’s appearance and notices that she looks ashen-faced and there a deep red rings around her eyes from where she’s obviously been crying. 

She sits on the edge of the bed and places her hand on Desmera’s own, with her thumb caressing the flesh beneath.  “I’m sorry,” Daenerys whispers. Desmera sadly nods her head, and looks down at her lap. It’s rare that Desmera is subdued, since she’s known to be passionate both in rage and in love, although she has no received much of the latter. Viserys is a selfish fool. 

“I thought it was my time,” Desmera mutters, and it shatters Dany’s heart. She climbs further onto the bed and wraps her arms around Desmera, holding the other woman to her chest as her body quivers with silent sobs. It’s likely that no one has properly comforted her since it happened. Her mother mentioned that Mera has been acting strong, which means she’s been putting on a brave face to the rest of the family. 

Daenerys knows that no words can erase what she’s lost, nothing can ease the pain which Mera has to live through right now, so she holds the grieving woman in her arms and hugs her tight. Tears slip from her own eyes, and she just wants to take the pain away. 

After a while, Desmera falls asleep and Daenerys decides that it is best to let her rest. She slips from the bedroom and spots her brother swaying as he walks up the corridor. It instantly fills her with rage seeing him in such a state, so she charges forward and grabs him by his jacket.

“Don’t even think of going in that bedroom,” Daenerys’s voice is quiet, even as she spits out the words. She doesn’t want to risk waking up Desmera. “You reek of alcohol and your wife is going through enough, without you doing a pathetic job at being there. Mama says that you’ve been avoiding Desmera all week, is that true?” Her eyes are flaming, and her body is shaking. Her brother is selfish and cold, but she didn’t think he was cruel. Not before, anyway.

“Nice to see you too, sister,” he grumbles at her, pushing away her hands. Daenerys understands that he may be drowning his sorrows, and dealing with his grief in his own way. But he’s already a terrible husband, without being completely cold towards his grieving wife.

“Viserys. Please don’t wake her.” Daenerys wishes she could fix the world around her and make everything perfect, but she can’t and it’s infuriating. 

“She doesn’t want to speak to me anyway.” His voice is void of emotion, and she’s torn between slapping him for his stupidity and hugging him. Most marriages are arranged and very few are based on love, which is why people have to work extra hard to understand the other person. She wonders if Viserys ever really communicates with his wife, or if he just assumes she’s disinterested. 

“Your wife is beautiful and intelligent, and she’s right there. Have you tried asking what it is that she wants? Have you tried getting to know her?” Daenerys knows that Viserys has the second-son syndrome, where he feels cheated out of all the great things and becomes suspicious of anything that is just for him. 

She motions towards a pair of chairs, which are situated not far from the staircase. Viserys rolls his eyes and sways as he walks over to the chair. He slumps down, while she perches on her own. 

“Has anyone asked how you are?” Daenerys asks gently, raising a questioning brow at him. Her brother shakes his head at her, and she realises how messy things have gotten since she’s left. Perhaps she was the only thing holding the house together and now that she’s moved away, it’s beginning to crumble. Her father is half-mad, and her mother has her own troubles, Rhaegar is too wrapped up in the failings of his own marriage to noticed much else and Cersei is just a bitch. 

“Not really. Father ranted about the fact that I don’t have an heir, mother was trying to console Desmera and Rhaegar, well god only knows where he is. He barely spends any time in the house any more. I’m sure he has a mistress,”

Daenerys listens to him ramble and sees her brother for the first time. She’s not a fool enough to think this will change him. He’ll probably still gamble and whore, but if she could just get him to give his marriage a chance - maybe Viserys and Desmera wouldn’t be so miserable with one another. 

“And how do you feel about everything?”

Viserys shrugs and picks up his tumbler of strong liquor. He takes a sip of the drink and winces, “It was all so sudden, I don’t really know what to feel. Desmera and I aren't intimate very often, so when she told me she was pregnant, I was surprised. I think we lost the baby too quickly for me to feel anything. I mean, me a father, who could see that?” Daenerys watches as he swallows the rest of his drink. It’s clear that he’s struggling with his emotions, despite what he’s saying.

“You deserve happiness, Viserys. I’m sorry that this has happened to you, but you’re both strong and I know that you’ll get through it. I just hope that you do that together. You need each other.” Viserys huffs and reclines back in the chair. She wonders if he’ll fall into drunken unconsciousness. It’s soon answered when she starts to hear her brother’s loud snores. 

Daenerys sits there and thinks of her own marriage. It’s only been a day since she’s been away from Winterfell, and she already misses it. She misses Jon and the way he makes her feel. She can’t help but feel hypocritical, when she’s telling Viserys that he needs to communicate with his wife, when she’s spent the last week ignoring Jon. 

She wants to see him and to tell him how much she’s missed him, even though they’ve been sharing the same bed. Daenerys wants him to hold her in his arms, and then she’ll whisper that she loves him when she’s certain he’s asleep. This is the love that she dreamed of as a little girl when the white wolf was there to guard and keep her safe. Jon is as much hers as she is his. 

 


	10. Shame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Here I am with another chapter. I hope you enjoy the latest instalment. 
> 
> The next update of Duchess is not too far away. However, I will be posting the first chapter of my modern fic before I post the next chapter of this.

**June 1775**

**Dragonstone Manor**

In spite of her exhaustion, sleep eludes her as she lies in the centre of her childhood bed staring up at the decorated canopy. The house is void of noise. Everyone from the nobility upstairs, to the servants in their quarters sleeps. All rest except her. She would prefer to be in her marital bed, with Jon’s gentle breaths tickling the fine strands of hair near her neck, as he holds her body against his own.

Her heart aches to be so far away from Jon. It’s scary how much she needs him. Daenerys never thought that she would depend on a man, that she would need someone to feel complete. But being away from him, it feels as though she’s been split in two. Why must love be so painful? 

Is she even sure that it’s love? What if destiny is playing tricks on her mind? 

Daenerys slips from her bed and pushes her feet into the plush carpet. She forgoes her slippers as she walks towards one of the long windows which decorates the room. It’s lined with thick pale blue drapes, which she tugs open with gentle force.

Light immediately filters into the room, coating her body in an icy glow. The moon is bright in the sky and she’s captivated by the sight of it. 

Ghost is just as pale as the moon and ever since her talk with Jon beside the waterfall, Daenerys has had vivid dreams of Jon and Ghost. They become come one when her husband shifts before her very eyes into the direwolf’s form. She is always tugged from her sleep when that happens. It makes her wonder if it’s possible or if her mind is playing tricks on her. Jon had said that the first Starks were able to shift into their direwolves. 

She’s unsure if she’ll ever be able to rationalise what Jon is in her mind, but she wants to try. 

Being in Dragonstone makes her feel like a guest or a stranger, it longer feels like the home it once was. A part of her wants to immediately get into a carriage and ride back to Winterfell. But in the dead of night, it’s not plausible. She’ll have to wait until the morning and she at least hopes to speak with Desmera again before she leaves. 

The sound of a door slamming makes her jolt in surprise. Rhaegar leaps out of a carriage boisterously, and she leans closer to the window to get a better look. He looks dishevelled and very much unlike his usual groomed self. She wonders if the rumours which Viserys spoke of are true and Rhaegar does have a secret lover. 

It would be a scandal of great magnitude if it turns out to be true. Men are rarely condemned for extra-marital relations, but Twin Lannister is not a man to be disrespected and a public scandal would not be tolerated. If his daughter were to be shamed in private, Daenerys didn’t imagine that it would bother him all that much. From what she had heard, Tywin was always more concerned with public image than the welfare of his own children. 

Her father needs very little to make him angry lately and conflict with Tywin Lannister would surely push him over the end. It would certainly be her mother who suffers his wrath. 

Daenerys knows that she’s lucky. Her marriage was decided for her and she had no say in the matter at all, but since the very beginning, Jon has done all that he can to show how devoted he is to her. The intensity of his affection borders on possessive, but she likes the way it feels. He is often cold to others outside of his close-knit circle, but he treats her as though she is the Queen of his world. 

Some women are not so fortunate. They live in fear of their husbands or wear fine jewels to conceal their loneliness. 

Rhaella was different. She used to focus her time solely on her children, and now that they are all grown up, there is very little for her to busy her mind with. Her father was rarely kind before, and now his growing agitation is causing her own mother to grow pale. 

It’s remarkable how many people go through life completely miserable, with nothing to brighten their dark world. 

Daenerys turns when her door swings open, and once again she jolts in surprise. She’s never been skittish, but recent events have made her feel more on edge. Triston stands in the doorway breathing heavily and clutching a bear to his chest. She’s reminded of just how small and innocent he is and unlike his fiercely independent sister, he’s a gentler soul. 

She motions for him to come forward, and he’s quick to rush, almost stumbling over his own small feet to get to her. His little arms tighten around her, and tears soon dampen her nightgown. Daenerys bends down to scoop him up so that she might carry him over to the bed. Triston curls into her side, his blonde hair mussed as one hand remains clenched on the small bear. He’s precious to her and she’s grateful that he’s not yet being forced to grow up into a strong man before he’s ready. 

“What is it, my little darling?” she asks softly and peels him away from her slightly so that she can look in his eyes which are full of tears. It breaks her heart to see him so upset. 

“Bad dream,” he mutters quietly. It is not uncommon for Triston to experience bad dreams, and in the past, he’d ran into her rooms more than once. Often, in the morning, the house would be in total chaos running around trying to find the boy - when he was lying beside her all tucked up. After a while, everyone began to assume that he’d ran to find her in the middle of the night. For some reason, he often saw her as his safety net. 

She does miss the children when is at Winterfell Estate, but it had to happen eventually. 

Daenerys hugs him close and strokes his head gently, trying to soothe away the tears, “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks delicately, knowing that sometimes he would rather not. The times that he has, the nightmares are of him falling off a horse, or being locked in his room. Sometimes he worries that his papa isn’t safe, or that Joanna will run away from him and leave him to get lost. Triston shakes his head and she knows not to push him if he’s not ready - he’ll only get more upset and she doesn’t want that. 

“Okay, angel. I’ll look after you and keep you safe,” she whispers. They both move to get under the warmth of the covers and she cuddles him close. She wonders if this is what’ll be like when she has her own children. “Do you want me to sing to you?” Daenerys liked to sing to the children often before she went away, and they often demanded it from her - much to Cersei’s chagrin. They talked often of how much they loved their Aunt Daenerys. 

Triston doesn’t say a word, but he nods his head while pulling his brown bear up to his chest again to bug the stuffed toy. She smiles at him and begins to sing,

 

_“ Lavender's blue, dilly dilly, lavender's green,_

_  
_ _When I am king, dilly dilly, you shall be queen:_

_  
_ _Who told you so, dilly dilly, who told you so?_

_  
_ _'Twas mine own heart, dilly dilly, that told me so…”_

 

When the morning comes, Daenerys feels grouchy. In the middle of the night, Triston had turned around in his sleep and had kicked her in the ribs a few times, which had startled her out of her slumber. For a three-year-old, Triston has surprising strength and she is likely already bruised. The space beside her is now empty, suggesting that he woke before her and has gone back to his own rooms now that the darkness has passed. 

She rolls over and reaches for the long bell cord, which will ring down to the staff in their quarters to alert them that she’s ready for her breakfast to be brought up. Her stomach rumbles and she realises that she ate very little yesterday, having been so consumed with her worries for Desmera and Viserys. 

The covers crumple beneath her weight as she leans over them with a big sigh. Daenerys knows that she needs to go home, but everything is a mess within Dragonstone. It feels as though she’s left and now everything is turning to dust around her. How can she return to her life at Winterfell, knowing that her family is in pain? But her heart is eager to be reunited with her husband. The separation, no matter how short, has proven to her that the feelings which she has are real. Daenerys doesn’t need to believe in fate or destiny. 

Her thoughts are so maddening that she’s tempted to clutch the ends of her hair and tug harshly. It is frustrating to be at war with oneself when she only wants peace. 

After she’s eaten and dressed for the day, she leaves the chambers. It no longer feels right to call them her rooms, even though they’re the quarters that she grew up in. From her transition from childhood to her first ball, she had grown up in that powder blue room. 

Quiet fills the manor, despite it being the waking hours. She wonders where all of her family members are, and if they’ve left for the day without telling her. Rhaella is often invited to ladies luncheons, although it’s a little early in the morning for such social activities. 

Daenerys spots Cersei, who is skulking in the corner with a perpetual frown on her features. She wonders if the expression has been frozen and that is why her brother’s wife shows no other emotions. It is only when others are miserable that the woman’s lips will turn up with a cruel smile - as though she delights in the melancholy of others. It always surprises Daenerys when she hears stories of the late Joanna Lannister, whom her mother always speaks very highly of. Of course, there were rumours that her father had set his eyes on Tywin’s future bride, but that did not come to fruition. 

She considers walking over to where Cersei is stood, under the archways in the main entrance hall, but she is in a bad enough mood already. Further annoyance would only set her teeth on edge.

Deliberately, she walks past with her head held high and walks across the room to exit out into the gardens. The morning sun is warm against her face, washing her in warm light as she looks across the rolling fields and groomed gardens. The grass sparkles with dew, and there’s a soft buzzing of bees as they fly around the bright flowers. 

She plucks a gardenia and holds it to her nose, breathing in the calming floral scent. 

Her moment of peace is interrupted by a squeal. Young Joanna runs past her laughing, while Triston trails behind her, trying to catch up to his twin sister. Their nanny stops at her side and leans over, letting out a tired breath as she gathers herself. Daenerys is amused by them, as the children run around the garden. 

She imagines a girl with raven hair and bright eyes like her’s, running around laughing, while Ghost chases the child around the gardens of Winterfell. Daenerys lets out a surprised gasp at how real it feels. The vision taunts her and she knows that she wants that future for herself. 

Nanny straightens suddenly beside her, her expression growing more serious. Daenerys turns her head to the left and notices that her father is now stood beside her. She had not managed to speak with him at all yesterday, although she had not been too disappointed by that. Her father is a trying man. 

“Excuse me,” Nanny mutters, and then heads off towards where the children are running around. Neither Daenerys or her father acknowledges the woman’s exit. 

The severe expression on her father’s face is worrying. 

“What are you doing here, Daenerys? Should you not be in Winterfell?” he asks coldly, which makes her shudder. She may be the jewel of his world, but she does not feel it right now. Aerys’ moods are changing and not for the better. 

“I came for a visit, papa,” she responds lightly, hoping to eliminate the unexpected tension from the conversation. Her father remains stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back and never once does he look her in the eyes. His gaze is cast outwards as if he’s surveying his own land. He’s never treated her so coldly. 

For a moment her father says nothing, they stand in complete silence watching as the children glide across the fields. Her father’s face crumples with annoyance, almost as if he has grown more disagreeable to the situation, the more he’s considered it.

“You shall return to Winterfell at once,” her father orders and she opens her mouth to object. His willowy hand catches her upper arm and grips tight. “You left your situation too soon, madam. You will not return until you are invited by me. There’s too much shirking of duty in this family. The Targaryens are an embarrassment,” he spits. His hold on her arm remains tight, a snake squeezing its prey, despite her trying to yank her arm from his firm grip.

“What are you talking about, papa? You’re hurting me.”

“Aerys,” her mother calls. Her father whirls around and slaps his hand against Rhaella’s cheek, causing the woman to stumble back. Daenerys lifts her hands to her mouth in shock and takes a step back. Never before has her father hit her mother in front of anyone, although she’s always had her suspicions that it happens in private.

“Father,” Daenerys gasps, unable to find the right words. She looks over at the children who are still playing, blissfully unaware of the altercation. 

“No, Daenerys! You are all bringing shame to this family and I will not have it. You leave your marriage bed too early and people will talk. Everyone is an embarrassment.” Her father’s tone grows angrier and more frantic. 

She spots Rhaegar, who is taking large strides to meet them on the grass. His indigo eyes look at her and then the blossoming redness of their mother's cheek. 

“Ah, my other disappointment. Rhaegar you are a disgrace to the Targaryen name. You cannot control your own wife and you expect to be the Earl of Dragonstone. Your boy needs a firmer grip, he’s too soft.”

Rhaegar remains calm, regardless of the many insults with their father hurls at him. He steps forward and grips Aerys’ forearm. “You’re overworked, father. Take rest in your study and we shall discuss this later.”

Aerys huffs and tries to pry Rhaegar’s grip away. Her brother is much stronger and taller than him, so he cannot win again Rhaegar on that front. “Enough,” Rhaegar whispers harshly and then releases his father’s arm.

Daenerys is shocked by what she has witnessed. Her father looks to be half-mad, although she would not speak such words aloud. Her palms are sweaty and her breathing is heavy, and as she reaches for her mother, the older blonde shakes her head. “No, my darling. Do not worry about me.” There’s a trembling in her mother’s soft words, but Daenerys knows not to push. Rhaella is a proud woman and she won’t want a fuss to be made of her. 

Rhaegar looks at her, and places a hand on her shoulder. “I am glad that you are here, but until things get better with father, I do not think you should visit again.” 

Reluctantly, Daenerys agrees. Her arrival only seems to have made her father worse and in spite of her despite to stay to support Desmera, she knows that she must leave. She does not want her mother to suffer for it. 

Quietly she helps the maids pack up her trunk, filling the space with her fine gowns and books. She uses the time to pack away a few things which she’d left in her childhood bedroom, but have no place in remaining there. Her favourite doll is packed into the trunk, in the hope that she can one day give it to her future daughter. 

The bright skies of the morning have now been masked with a thick covering of clouds, which blocks out the sunlight and makes Dragonstone appear dreary. 

Her enchanted childhood made the manor appear bright, beautiful, and castle-like. She had grown up feeling like a princess with her heart’s desire at her fingertips. Children are kept innocent, shielded from the darkness of the world. However, it was always there lurking in the shadows, waiting for her naivety to be blown away. All the despair that her mother has encountered, the things, which Rhaegar has undoubtedly kept from her, she sees it all now.

The pain in her mother’s eyes cuts her deep. She is powerless to help her mother. Nothing stops a man from harming his own wife – it is his right. Thankfully, her brothers have not inherited their father’s proclivity for violence.

Triston cries when she stands by the door to say her goodbyes, trunk already loaded back onto the carriage. She kneels down so that she is at eye-level and holds him close. “We shall see each other soon,” she promises. She moves along and presses a kiss to Joanna’s cheek, who throws her arms forward to embrace her, ruffling Daenerys’ hair.

She embraces her mother last, who remains poised in the face of her pain. The strength of Rhaella Targaryen is unlike any other. “Goodbye, mama. I shall write often,” she whispers, and then pulls back, holding the elder woman’s hands in her own. Her mother squeezes her hands, likely to assure Daenerys that she is okay, and then pulls back her grip.

When she climbs into the carriage, tears begin to trickle down her face. She hates feeling as though she cannot protect her own family and that her love is not enough. They have always treated her so well, and she wants so make sure they are given the same treatment out of life. Nevertheless, she’s naïve to think so and she knows that.

Holding an embroidered cloth to her eyes, she silently cries into the fabric as the carriage begins to rock. Rain patters down on the carriage roof, and she’s grateful that it conceals her sniffles.

Daenerys had hoped that her visit would be a sweet one and that she would return to Winterfell having confided in her mother, about the concerns over her marriage. Leaving only makes her feel more sorrow, and yet she is assured of her feelings for Jon. He will never treat her unkindly; he has already shown his deep devotion to her.

The long road to Winterfell is boring and she has nothing but her thoughts to entertain her, and they are full of turmoil.

It is dark she arrives at Winterfell, yet she glances at it with more warmth than she had Dragonstone. This strange place is her home. She peeks up at the window to Jon’s study and notices a figure looking down – her husband knows that she is home.

She climbs out of the carriage gasping when the cold rain his her skin, and then rushes inside of the manor. Davos bows at her when she enters, she offers a kind smile in return. Daenerys is torn between retreating to her bedrooms and heading towards Jon’s study. Cowardice has never been in her blood, so she would rather face Jon now.

Daenerys tugs off her gloves, which are damp from the rain, placing them on a sideboard before she comes face to face with the dark oak door to Jon’s study. Refusing to be consumed by the anxious feeling, which pools deep in her stomach, she knocks on the door and walks in without waiting for a response.

“You left me,” Jon says with his back to her. He has not moved from his spot in front of the window.

Daenerys swallows, “Only to visit my family.”

Jon turns slowly around. He looks as though he has not slept since she left. The skin around his eyes looks dark and sunken in. His hair is unkempt, loose from the usual knot at the back of his head.  

“After I exposed every part of my soul to you, you did not speak to me for over a week. Then you left without a word. What was I to think, Daenerys?”

It hits her that she has been so consumed with how the news has affected her, that she has not even stopped to consider how Jon would feel in all of this. She feels his pain in her own heart, and her eyes fill with tears.

“I am so very sorry, my love,” she whispers. For over a week she had not let him touch her, had not allowed him to get close to her at all. Daenerys had not intended for it to seem as though she was rejecting his love. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

Jon steps forward, “Only you ever could.”

Daenerys nods her head and takes hurried steps until she is met with his hard chest. She crushes her cheek against him, feeling his heart pounding against her, while tears soak his shirt.  

His arms snake around her tightly and she feels whole for the first time in days.

“You are mine. You do not ever get to leave me,” he whispers hotly against her ear, making her shudder from the contact. His possessiveness never frightens her; it only entices her to want more.

She is happy being his, just as he is hers.


	11. The Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday! I hope you all enjoy the latest chapter of 'The Duchess and the Wolf'. Let me know what you think, and I'll be back soon with another chapter. As always, you can come and talk to me on tumblr @steelrosewrites, if you want to know where I'm at with the updates.

****

****

**June, 1775.**

**Winterfell Estate**

 

Daenerys’ hopes of a peaceful evening are soon shattered. She unexpectedly finds herself eating her dinner alone in Jon’s study, while he is outside battling the storm. They had hoped to have some time together away from prying eyes, which is why they had opted to take dinner in the study, rather than joining the rest of the family in the dining room. But just as the final platter had been brought into the room and Jon picked up the carving knife to cut into the venison, Jorah and the stablehand Ed, rushed in soaking wet and dripping into the expensive rugs. The stables had been damaged in the storm and one of the horses was on the loose. 

Jon had jumped to his feet straight away, carving knife clattering against the silverware. He had looked at her apologetically before rushing off. If this were her father being told, he would not have cared. But Jon does not hide behind his titles, he likes to get his hands dirty. 

For a moment she wonders what it would be like if they’d been born different, simpler. Would they have a little cottage in the country? Would she cook the dinners with the kills Jon came home with that evening? She throws her napkin down on her plate and pulls out her chair, ignoring the sound as it scrapes crudely across the floor. 

She hears the jingle of Margaerys’ laughter and her insides twist. Deep down, Daenerys knows that it’s foolish to be annoyed with her friend, but she cannot help it. There’s a lingering feeling of betrayal which she cannot shake. 

Daenerys turns away from the direction of the laughter and instead moves towards the decorated panel at the end of the hallway, where the stairs down to the servants quarters are concealed. She opens the door and begins the steep climb down the stone stairs. There has been no need for her to go below stairs before, but now she’s curious. She doubts there will be peace when many of the men are outdoors battling the storm. 

The first thing which Daenerys’ notices is how dimly lit it is and the barrenness of decorations. Unlike the ornately decorated halls that she has already started the renovation for, downstairs appears simple and non-fussy. There’s a buzz of chatter in the air the closer that she gets to the kitchens, it seems more alive downstairs than it does in her own dining room. 

One housemaid rushes past her then immediately stills, twists on the heels of her shoes and nods her head out of respect. Daenerys smiles softly and carries on towards the kitchens, where most of the noise seems to be coming from. 

At the head of the long dining table, the butler sits with one hand on a teacup and the other on a small pocket watch. There’s a gasp and all heads turn towards her while she stands in the doorway, one hand resting on the brass handle.  It’s the butler that rises to his feet first, “Your grace,” the butler says, tone bristled with a common twang. 

“Please, sit back down. I only came down to have a look,” she responds gently, not wanting to faff around with all the pretences so late in the evening, when many are restless and concerned. Most of the men are missing, but there are a few footmen remaining and the butler, of course. 

Daenerys moves past the table and over to where the cook is robustly kneading bread. She’s a portly woman with aged features and grey springy hair, which is pulled back into a bun. The apron she wears is barely marked, showing that the woman knows how to keep a clean kitchen.

For a moment she watches the woman quietly, before an idea hits her. 

“Mrs Forrester, would you teach me how to make bread?” Daenerys asks gently, noting the surprised alarm on the older woman’s face, who brushes her flour-covered hands together and gives an inelegant nod of the head.

“Of course, Duchess,” the woman stumbles over her words slightly and sets aside the dough which she’s been working on. The large bowl is covered by pale linen. Daenerys assumes it's so the mixture doesn’t go bad...but she could be wrong. 

Mrs Forrester moves around the kitchen collecting ingredients, muttering to herself as flour is placed onto the counter, followed by several jars. The woman motions for Daenerys to follow her to the stove, where the woman pours milk into a large pot. “We be needing to heat the milk. We then be adding yeast and sugar,” the woman says, offering her a wooden spoon. 

The kitchen-maid rushes over to her and provides her with a clean apron, to protect Daenerys’ fine clothes from any mess she may inevitably create. Daenerys understands that it’s a strange request, but she’s interested to see how the bread she eats is made. 

Most of the servants have stopped what they’re doing to watch and even Missandei is giving her a strange look. Her friend should know most of all that Daenerys does not care about the oppression and rules of titles. 

It’s not long before Daenerys well and truly gets her hands involved, and she’s left with sticky dough covering every inch of her palms and knuckles. She laughs and slowly, but surely, everyone in the kitchen relaxes around her. She’s not there to watch or judge, she’s simply there to make bread. 

“You beat it much more and it’ll be as tough as a rock.” Daenerys looks over at the cook and then down at the bread dough, before chuckling to herself once again. The woman’s blunt mannerisms are a breath of fresh air, and a delightful distraction from everything happening around them outside. It’s easy to forget that the wind is howling so loud, you can hear it indoors. 

Daenerys takes her hands away and wipes them on her apron. The kitchen-maid sheepishly guides her over to the washbasin, so that she can properly cleanse her hands from all the sticky dough. 

While the bread is baking, Daenerys decides to remain downstairs for a little while longer. She ought to see how her first attempt at baking bread has turned out. She sits down beside Missandei, while cook places a cup of tea in front of her. 

She sips her tea quietly and listens to the servant's talk. They aren’t so very different from her, their lives are just dressed up differently. Dotty, the kitchen maid, has worked her way up through the years. Originally, she was the scullery maid, but found that she had a passion for baking. Meanwhile, she discovers that her newest ladies’ maid Meredyth, has been receiving all the attention from the footmen - much to the dismay of Mrs Crook. 

Her indigo eyes brush over Missandei, who is also blushing. Since they both arrived at Winterfell, Daenerys has noticed that her friend has gained an admirer in the gardener, Gray. There are many looks passed between the two and Daenerys is certain that something is brewing, if it has not already. She does not mind if Missy acts on those feelings, so long as she does it honestly. That is easier said than done, when it comes to matters of the heart. 

Daenerys turns towards the butler and sighs. “How long do you think they will be?” she asks, trying to remain brave, despite her growing concern. Her husband is strong and so are his men, but a storm is untamable and broken stables and a horse on the loose are certainly not ideal.

“It may still be a while, Duchess. There are many cottages and tenants on the land, I’m certain that the Duke will also wish to make sure they are safe,” Davos explains. Daenerys knows that he is right, of course. In any case, maybe his wolf instincts will aid him, although she knows not how. She will have to ask him.

The two bread loaves are pulled out side by side. The first is the one which Mrs Forrester had been kneading before Daenerys entered, and the second one is Daenerys’. They do not look too dissimilar, but it’s clear to see that some of the air has been knocked out of the one she’d been over kneading. Still, she is proud of herself for getting involved. She can now tell Jon that she’s made them bread.

“Thank you for indulging me, Mrs Forrester,” Daenerys calls as she is leaving the kitchens, deciding that its best to retire for the evening. 

Her name is called when she passes by the sitting room, but she ignores it. Daenerys is no longer in the mood to talk, especially not to Margaery. That can be settled in the morrow, once she has had a much needed conversation with her husband. 

In her rooms, Missandei quietly helps her to undress, leaving Daenerys to her thoughts. Her blue diamond ring is slipped into the ornate dish on her bedside table, and all of Daenerys’ other fine jewels are removed. Pinned curls are brushed out and layers upon layers of fabric are removed from her body. 

She shivers slightly as she stands naked in the room, the cold air from outside somehow drafting indoors. Missandei has already informed her that a bed warmer had been placed into the sheets on her side, earlier on in the evening. The maid’s eyes drift over the obvious bruise on Dany’s arm, but no comment is made. 

A fine white nightgown is slipped over her head and she thanks Missandei for her aid. 

Daenerys climbs into bed and rolls onto her side, staring at the ring in the jewellery dish. Sleep soon takes her and her eyes grow heavy, until the warm glow of the candle light is no longer glimmering in the corner of her eye. 

Later, the bedroom door creaks open, which Daenerys barely notices. It’s only when she hears the sounds of boots being dropped to the ground and the shuffling of clothes, that she realises Jon is back. She winces in the darkness, making out the shape of her husband. 

Neither of them say anything for a moment, and he slips naked into the bed beside her and pulls her body flush against his. She can feel the dampness of his hair, and the warmth of his naked body. “I had planned to spend hours making you tremble with pleasure. But I’m just too bloody tired,” he murmurs against her ear. She hums tiredly in agreement and folds her arm over the one which he has wrapped around her waist. 

“Tomorrow,” she whispers, her eyes closing once more. It’s so warm and protective in Jon’s embrace, it’s the safest that she has ever felt. 

When morning comes, they are still curled up around one another. Daenerys does not want to budge from her spot and she hopes that the maids will not interrupt them too quickly. She wiggles slightly and the arm on her waist tightens. 

Twisting in his grip, Daenerys turns until she is nose to nose with Jon. His dark eyes take in her own and she is once again bewitched by him. It’s as though she finally understands the true depth of their bindings to one another, which goes far deeper than any normal human love. It’s a strange love which they have and Daenerys knows wholeheartedly that it’s love which she feels for it. Those feelings which she had been frightened of, they consume her now.

“Jon,” she gasps, hand coming up to rest on the side of his face. “I’m so sorry. I did not believe in this, in us. I was scared of loving you because it felt as though the choice had already been made up for me, that I could not choose an alternative even if I wanted to. But I understand now that being fated to one another doesn't guarantee love, but I feel all the more bound to you because I do in fact love you.” An unexpected tear slips from her eye. “I love you and I didn’t expect to.”

“It has always been real for me,” Jon responds, moving over her until he’s straddling her waist. “How could anyone not love you?” He pins her wrists to the bed, and presses a sweet kiss to the skin above her brow. “I love you from beautiful silver-gold hair, to all the captivating thoughts that swim around in your head. I love that your eyes grow brighter when you’re happy, and your lips part whenever you look at me for too long - that’s when I know you’re imagining all the dirty things I could do to you. I love that I can hear your heart pounding in my ears, even when you aren’t around,” his words take her breath away and she has no time to catch it. Jon doesn’t stop speaking, he simply looks lower. “I love the delicate slope of your neck and the way it tilts when I kiss it. I love how soft your shoulders are and how strong they are to carry the burdens you do. I love how big your heart is and how much love you have to give. Everyone around you should feel blessed to be loved by you. I love how you are with children and it makes me dream of our own. Your hands were made to nurture, that’s why they’re so soft. I love your belly and how that’s where our children will grow.”

“...Jon,” she gasps, overwhelmed by his declaration. He leans forward and brushes his lips against her own before a moment and then pulls back.

“I could carry on,” Jon teases. “There will never be an end to the reasons why I love you, Daenerys.” He releases her pinned arms, so she wraps them around his neck and pulls him down, so his body is weighing her down. 

“I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve a man like you.”

Daenerys knows that she needs to cherish her love with Jon. After seeing her family's marriage and how broken they all are, she realises that it is the last thing which she wants for her own. It won’t always be easy and they will inevitably disagree, but she will never stop trying with her marriage. 

“It isn’t about deserving anything. We should all be able to experience true happiness in life, otherwise what is the point in fighting for it at all?” Jon lifts off of her, turning and taking her with him, so that their positions are flipped. Not all people will agree with her husband on that matter. Most fathers marry their daughters to middle-aged men, as they will gain something from the marriage. Like most things, marriage is about money. Scoundrels charm pretty heiresses into their bed, so that they can claim the fortune they hold. 

“If we have a daughter…” Daenerys begins, only to be interrupted.

“If? Haven’t you dreamed of our children?” 

She thinks of her dreams and the little girl which she as seen, but it’s just a dream. “One, maybe?” she says questionably, brow furrowing. 

“I’ve dreamed of them all,” he tells her, stroking her hips. “I’ll keep it to myself and let you enjoy the surprises.”

Daenerys gasps and playfully swats his chest, “You do not play fair,” she scolds, hair forming a curtain of waves around her face as she looks down at him. Jon leans up slightly and pushes some of the hair behind her ears. 

The atmosphere seems to change around them, and suddenly Daenerys knows that she needs him inside of her. His hands graze the thin material of nightgown, pushing it up past the bunching of her hips, slowly revealing her pale skin. Once it’s beneath her breasts, she takes the material from his grip and tugs it up, over her head. The moment her breasts are free, Jon palms them. 

His hands still and she feels him tense beneath her. 

“Who did that?” The darkness in his voice makes her shudder. She follows the direction of his eyes to the dark bruise on her arm, from where her father had grabbed and refused to let go of her. 

“It’s nothing,” she whispers, her hands curling around his wrists. Jon’s eyes darken with anger and he shakes his head while he sits up, until their bellies are pressed against one another. 

“Daenerys, tell me who hurt you,” he growls, lifting her lightly arm to inspect the bruise. “It must have been someone at Dragonstone. Was it your brother, perhaps? Your father? An insolent servant? Tell me who it was.” The anger in his tone is unmistakable.

She cups his face, but he shakes off her hands and continues to stare at the bruise. “Jon, please calm down. It was an accident, he was stressed,” she rambles. “Please. It’s being dealt with.”

“There are ways of finding out, Daenerys. Tell me who hurt you, or I will go to Dragonstone myself and get the information I need.” He looks her in the eyes this time and she feels her resolve crumble. 

“My father,” she admits, biting her lip.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Jon growls, and moves to push her off his lap. She steadies herself by gripping his shoulders and squeezing her tights.

“No,” she orders fiercely, trying to hold him steady. Daenerys knows that if he really wants to, Jon can throw her off as though she is no lighter than a feather. “Please, leave him alone. Rhaegar is dealing with him, just leave him be. You have to trust that my brother can handle this.” Her eldest brother is the only one in the Targaryen family capable of controlling her father, and she has to hold faith to that, “Please, Jon,” she begs softly, her words barely a whisper. “It’s just you and me here now, nothing else matters. Be here with me.” Daenerys rests her forehead against his own, eyes closing as she prays he’ll let it go.

Jon’s furious heart calms a little and she can feel it beating more normally against her chest. For a few minutes, they say nothing. “For you, I will leave it. But he ever thinks of laying so much as a finger on you, I will end him.” His warning is a promise, one which she knows he will keep. 

Daenerys nods and then seeks out his lips, pushing her own against them. They kiss to find their way back to one another, searching for the passion behind the anger and frustration. It’s not long before need overtakes anything else and she’s panting in his mouth, desperate for more. 

Their urgency leaves no time for preparation, but there’s only pleasure when she sinks down, his thick cock filling her wet heat deliciously. They move together, every inch of flesh claimed by the other as their bodies dance in synchronisation, deriving pleasure from the other. It’s just them, nothing else matters. 

 


End file.
